Lifelines
by pekuxumi
Summary: Now complete! The Batfamily is one big mess. Richard intends to change that, but his time is running out. NO SLASH.
1. prologue

**LIFELINES**

**PROLOGUE**

Shutting out the outside world seemed to finally lift the fog that had clouded his mind.

The minute Richard closed the door behind him and looked around his apartment, a sigh escaped his lips that almost sounded like a breathless "Shit". The empty room somehow made him realize how wrong the last hours of this long, long day had been. It was mocking him with its unchanged state, just the way he had left it this morning- only he had come back as a different person.

The apartment he had grown so accustomed to was wrong now, all wrong.

He shook his head. What a waste of time to philosophise about that now. There were better things to do. He glanced at the telephone on the small table beside his wardrobe, wondering if he should start _the calls_ now... yes, he probably should.

Richard kicked his shoes into one corner and made his way towards the phone doubtingly, not taking his eyes off it. But what to tell the person on the other line?_ "Roy, it's me, how have you been? Oh, quite well, thanks. Just got a cancer diagnosis today"_, _"Alfred, did you get the news? Guess what!"_

… well, no. Come to think of it, something like that shouldn't be said over the phone at all.

"Do it in person," he said out loud, while ignoring the little voice in the back of his mind that lamented how _telling_ actually made it _real_.

Dick grabbed the phone anyway and made his way towards his kitchen table, sliding down on a chair. Images flashed through his mind, voices that told him to stay still, that the worst would be over.

He sneered. What a joke, it was just beginning.

The bone marrow examination had hurt pretty badly, and he had been completely unprepared. The call he had gotten this morning – he glared down at the phone in his hand disdainfully- should have worried him, but it didn't. He had arrived at the hospital with the certainty of knowing that such things would never happen to him.

But it did, he had a document in his pocket that stated it in print: Richard John Grayson had been diagnosed with leukemia.

"Leukemia...leu_kem_ia_._.."

Dick tried the word out loud, curious if it became more real when he heard it in his own voice. It didn't. He took the sheet out of his pocket and unfolded it, reading what was written. Actually, he knew the content by heart; his doctor's words were probably forever engraved in his temporal lobes.

_"...sorry to tell you... acute myeloid leukemia... treatment should start as soon as possible..."_ and the rest was a blur of medical termini, erythrocytes, leukocytes, and, of course, the ever appalling chemotherapy. He would make sense out of it later.

When he rested his head on his folded arms, he closed his eyes and listened to the increasing rhythm of his heart. There it came- the panic he had known would arrive at some point.

Cancer.

He had fucking _cancer._

He was 23 years old and had cancer.

_How the hell did that happen?_

His breath shuddered, and he gripped the sleeves of his jacket closer, remembering the big bruises on his torso that just wouldn't heal, and the everlasting tiredness he had been fighting over the last weeks. He had taken it for prolonged effects of his last, pretty persistent flu; but now of course he learned that the flu had only been the result of his weakening immune system.

Bruce had told him to finally go see a doctor, after Richard had almost killed himself with firing a grapeling hook in midair and sneezing simultaneously. Obviously he had ignored him. Damnit.

Bruce...

The prospect of telling his surrogate father... Alfred... Tim.. Damian... made him wince.

How do you tell your family you have been diagnosed with a possible lethal illness? That the next months of your life will be living hell?

Richard realized that he was shaking for some time now... Well, why not.

He tried to imagine his family's reactions.

Bruce? Probably stoic, unemotional, until he would descend into his cave and find a way to blame himself.

What about Jason? Would he even care? Dick hadn't seen him for weeks now; he didn't even know whether he was still in Gotham or not.

Tim would cry and cling to him, he was sure of that. At least one of his brothers was able to show emotions, and Dick was glad for that.

Which brought him to the last addition of his makeshift family, to Damian. Damian was a complete enigma. Would he cry? Probably not, although they had grown close. But if he had to bet, Richard guessed that Damian would react almost like Bruce would: shut himself out and eat it all up inside.

He could see them all so vividly, it almost scared him.

Who would be there for his younger siblings? Certainly not Bruce. Usually it was himself who coaxed the head of the family out of his broodings, who cheered up Tim and broke through to Damian. And Jason... they weren't exactly friends, but considering the rest of the family, they were probably the closest. Maybe. Or not.

Dick sighed again, this time deeper and with a bit more desperation. He should be thinking about his own situation, not worrying about his family!

...But thinking about them was actually a lot less scary than thinking about his own future, filled with chemotherapy and loss of hair. So he just kept on.

His dying would leave his family in a devastated state. They didn't know how to comfort each other, Richard had observed this when Bruce was declared dead. They simply fell apart, although the little damage control he had managed to accomplish in spite of his own grieving had kept them at least on speaking terms. There wasn't much more to achieve with Damian and Jason, but Tim's leaving had hit him hard. The first phone call was a blessing of the heavens, and thank God they had kept regular contact until Tim finally decided to forgive him.

Ahh, jolly times.

There was no way he would be leaving them in that desolate state they were in.

He needed a plan.

Sitting in his kitchen, heart pounding a lot faster than he would have liked, Dick made a mental promise to himself to finally reconcile his family. Or at least, to make them realize how much they needed each other. Jason and Bruce. Damian and Tim. Jason and Tim. There had to be a way, and he was damned if he didn't find it before the goddamn leukemia got him.

The small voice in his head from earlier piped up again, scolding him for distracting himself from his predicament, but he pushed it aside. He was becoming quite good at that.

-tbc-

* * *

_Hello everyone, thank you for reading!_

_I kindly ask you to drop me a line. I don't like this fishing for reviews, but the thing is.. English is not my first language. And I have absolutely no idea if this was readable or not. So please tell me, and feel free to point out any mistakes or typos you find._

_Love, Pekuxumi_


	2. Chapter 1

_Please read the author's note at the end._

**LIFELINES**

**CHAPTER ONE**

The first week went by in a haze.

Dick had been in the hospital almost the entire time, giving blood sample after blood sample and numbly signing documents his doctor handed to him.

It was as if the more the doctors told him about his condition, the more unreal everything became.

Only when they finally settled for the date of the first chemo dose did the whole thing crash down on him. His heart started to pound twice as fast, and Dick vainly tried to hide the trembling of his hands when he said his goodbyes.

Stepping outside into plain sunlight made him sick, nausea hit in a matter of seconds, and for a moment he actually scanned the hospital yard for some place to empty his stomach. His breath hitched in his throat and he sat down heavily on a bench, right beside an old man who was sucking air out of an oxygen mask in rattling gulps.

_Oh, God._

Richard fled.

He could deal with the Joker, Blockbuster, Ra's, the Batglare and a horny Poison Ivy, but this was different. _This.._

Back at home, he grabbed the phone and dialed the first number that came to his mind.

It was Barbara's. The effect was immediate: only hearing her voice made all the worries go away. Why hadn't he called her earlier?

Of course, she noticed something was off in a matter of seconds. There was no way of telling such a diagnosis gently, so Dick just blurted it out. Barbara told him that that was his worst joke ever. When he didn't respond, he could hear clatter from her side of the conversation.

"Are you hacking the hospital?" he asked with a faint smile, the first one in days.

_"Shut up, short pants."_

A second later he heard her gasp, a curse almost inaudible.

They talked for the next two hours. He asked her not to tell anyone. She wanted to know if he was nervous about next week's chemo session. Richard hesitated for a second, then answered honestly:

"Terrified."

* * *

And he was.

He had barely slept the two nights prior to his chemo appointment, although Dick didn't know if that was thanks to anxiety or to the pre-chemo meds his doctor had given him. The list of side effects on the small pill bottle read (he swore to himself to never _ever_ read about side effects again) that insomnia was common, but he doubted that he would be able to sleep without taking them.

Instead he was laying awake and stared up at the ceiling, wracking his brain about Jason, Bruce or Tim. So far he hadn't come up with a master plan or told any of them.

Bruce was out of town. Out of country, actually.

An email told him that Cassandra needed Bruce's help, and he was trusting Dick to take care of Gotham. No such luck. By the time he read the mail, Tim had already called him with news about his and Steph's adventures on patrol, so at least everything was fine in the crime fighting department. He had wanted to tell Tim, he really did, but then he had decided otherwise. His little brother had sounded so happy when he told him about the look on Killer Croc's face that Dick already felt the bad conscience bubbling up for dragging Tim down.

Jason was untraceable. He had asked Barbara to find him, but she couldn't. And if she couldn't, nobody would. It was safe to assume that he was alive and well, but there was no chance in hell of finding him when he didn't wanted to be found.

His mind wandered on to the faces of his colleagues when he told them about his sickness. Turning his police badge in for the time being felt terrible; his boss had almost doubled over with promises and affirmations that he could return anytime he was up to it again. Amy cried, even though she hid it well. That scared him senseless.

Amy's red eyes haunted him. In his sleep-deprived mind, they morphed into Tim's (likely) or Damian's (unlikely) and made the cycle start again.

* * *

So when Richard stepped tiredly into the oncological unit of the Blüdhaven All Saints Hospital, his intestines turned to ice, colder and colder with each step.

The nurse escorted him to a bed behind a flimsy curtain and instructed him to take off his jacket and shoes. Dick complied without bringing one word past the lump in his throat. He barely nodded when she asked him if he was ready, even though he actually wanted to scream bloody murder when she plunged the needle into his left arm.

She left him with an encouraging smile and a pile of paper to work through (hadn't he signed and read everything last week already?), but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the small glass bottle that hung from the I.V. pole, connected to his vein and dripping a clear fluid into the steady flow of isotonic saline solution.

There was a biohazard warning on it.

A freaking _biohazard _sign!_ Seriously?!_

Indeed he was so caught up in staring and awaiting sickness and pain in any second that he jumped and yelped in surprise when his mobile phone buzzed against his thigh.

Cursing, he fumbled it out with his right hand and barked a breathless "Yeah!" into the speaker.

_"Did I miss anything?"_ Barbara's voice came through.

He stared at the phone. "No, just started. What are yo-"

_"Hair still in place?"_

"Everything where it should be," he loved her straight- forwardness. "Although I could totally pull it off."

She sneered._ "Like that time you and Wally blew up Gotham Academy's chemistry lab? Trust me, your boyish charms depend heavily on your eyebrows."_

Then she began telling him about her week, and after a while he leaned back, relaxed, and listened to her chit-chatting the time away.

Fifty minutes later she excused herself and hung up. He glanced warily up at the biohazardous bottle above his head and realized flabbergastedly that she had talked him through the whole procedure.

Faintly he ran a hand through his hair - still there.

He checked for any pain in his body - nothing but the ordinary, slight aches in his limbs.

When the nurse returned, he was about to wave a hand in front of his eyes (- everything clear) and grinned up at her sheepishly. She was taken aback, but then grinned back. "You feeling alright, hon?"

"Yeah, it wasn't as bad as I expected it to be.."

After taking out the needle, she told him to stay put for a few seconds before sprinting off. An awkward silence ensued while Dick pressed a soft fabric against his bleeding arm.

"So, um, when will the side effects kick in?" he asked reluctantly.

The nurse looked at him sympathetically. "You got a staircase to climb at home?"

He nodded. Three, actually.

"You'll know then."

She was right.

-tbc-

* * *

_Coming up next: Bruce!_

_I promise to stay as close to medical authenticity as possible, but I'm pretty sure that I'll mess up sooner or later. Please keep in mind that there are different versions of chemotherapy, and they affect each person differently. _

_I'll also take my liberties with the ages of the characters. I imagine Richard as about 23; he should probably be older, but I don't want there to be such a big age gap between him and his brothers. Jason will be 21 (barely drinking age :P), and Tim probably 16, 17... Damian is 11, and Bruce's age is one big mystery^_^

_Feel free to point up any mistakes you find. I'm still trying to figure out how my profile works (editing, hello?), so please bear with me._

_(important stuff ends here, blablaing begins)_

_I'm completely blown away by your nice reviews and support! Thank you SO much. English really is my second language, but thank you very much for not believing it :D. I'm usually quite confident in it, but this is the first time I wrote anything in English, so I was nervous. _

_To express my gratitude, this chapter reaches you earlier than my schedule wanted it to!_

_Love, Pekuxumi_


	3. Chapter 2

**LIFELINES**

**CHAPTER TWO**

_-2 weeks later-_

Bright sunbeams woke him up.

Richard turned around lazily and buried his face deeper into the pillows. There was no way he was going to get up now or, preferably, at all. Today was Tuesday, he remembered dimly, and Tuesday wasn't a chemo day. Precious.

He was actually feeling fine this morning; no nausea, no vomiting, he wasn't freezing or burning up for once. There was a slight headache and a dull pain in his joints when he moved, but those had become constant companions for a while now and weren't really noteworthy anymore. Let alone the fact that the sunlight had woken him up and not some other goddamn ache in some goddamn muscle he hadn't even known before he possessed, was a reason to-

Woah._.. sunlight? _

Sunlight, as in_ DAY_light?

He jolted into an upright position, eyes wide and adrenaline pumping through his body. True enough, his apartment was bathed in the light of day, his living room clock happily informing him that it was eleven o'clock in the morning.

Eleven o'clock. IN THE MORNING.

_Ohhh shit._

Dick wrestled the blankets that were piled over him away and sprang to his feet. He was so dead. He was _soo dead._

He was supposed to meet Batman twelve hours ago. Nightwing was supposed to keep watch on Batman and Robin's last episode of 'How to Beat up the Drug Dealers', a deal Bruce had been planning since meeting up with Cassandra in Hong Kong. Some international drug ring, unpredictable and violent, that tried to make roots in Gotham. They were dangerous, Bruce had told him over the phone a week ago, and he needed backup and surveillance from above.

Dick had weakly asked why Red Robin couldn't do the job, but Bruce had insisted on his help. Of course, an urge to gag had come up right in that moment, preventing him from refusing further. So he had just promised to be there, hung up, and made his way to the bathroom.

And now he had missed it. Had fallen asleep on his couch, fully dressed, after an exhausting day of chemo and slept through the whole freaking night.

He didn't slow down when he dashed towards his bathroom while his vision blurred and his knees buckled slightly. He was used to the dizzy spells by now, and there were more important things to worry about.

He was so, so dead.

As soon as he grabbed his phone, Richard went straight to speed dial. Barbara's voice piped up only a second later.

_"Any famous last words? 'Cause you are ____so__ dead."_

He rolled his eyes. "How did it go?" he asked while checking himself over in the mirror. He was pale and his hair a mess, at least there weren't any beard stubbles. Dick tried to remember when he had shaved for the last time, but found that he couldn't. Maybe a week ago?

Well, at least one positive side effect of the chemo. He briefly wondered if he should worry about that.

_"...hey, are you even listening!"_ Barbara asked, annoyed.

"Sorry. Listen I-" Barbara tried to interrupt, but he just went on, "I fell asleep after chemo yesterday and woke up five minutes ago. I'm on my way to Gotham. Is anyone hurt?"

She negated, and a weight fell off Dick's mind. Quickly he picked up a few pills from the many bottles that lined up on his bathroom closet and swallowed them dry. Running a hand through his hair, he glanced towards the mirror again. It had to do. He grabbed his keys and headed out.

"How mad is he?" Richard asked reluctantly as he opened the car door.

_"Oh Boy Wonder, you don't want to know,"_ Babs sobered immediately. _"You'll tell him?"_

He sighed. "I wanted to yesterday, after the mission. So yeah, I'll tell him." .. as soon as he knew _how_.

_"It's funny, you know? Telling him you might die will probably save your life in a few minutes."_

"Your sense of humor is lovely." It was. It was what had pulled him through the bad days of the last two weeks, when the chemo became difficult to bear and he found it harder and harder to stay optimistic. _And it's only been two weeks.._, he thought disheartenedly, but of course Barbara distracted him again.

_"You shouldn't be driving,"_ she said gloomily into the speaker, and Richard was glad to touch familiar territory again. They had been arguing about the things he should and shouldn't do all week, even though he mostly had to agree with her._ Of course_ driving was a bad idea. Even worse was the idea to think that he could actually pull off a Nightwing patrol with Batman without killing himself. But sometimes there really wasn't much of a choice, at least that was what he told himself.

So Dick reared up his engine and pulled out of the driveway.

Carefully he asked how yesterday's mission went, but Barbara mumbled that he should pay attention to the road and excused herself.

... damn, he was so dead.

* * *

Richard didn't ring the doorbell but opened the door on his own, in an attempt to enter the manor as quietly as possible. He had planned to first seek out Alfred and make sure that Bruce wouldn't kill him, and then tell both of them at once. But of course Alfred was standing beside the wardrobe already, with a polite smile and a curiously raised eyebrow.

"Hey Alfred," he greeted weakly and handed his jacket over. If Alfred noticed the wrinkles on the fabric he wore since yesterday, he didn't show.

"Master Richard, what a pleasant surprise! And so.._ daring_. Will you stay for lunch? I would love to set the table for you too, but if I may warn you, Master Bruce might take advantage of the knives if he sees you."

Okay, _that_ was a warning. He was in serious trouble. Slowly and hesitatingly he followed Alfred, who was chatting happily about today's lunch plans into the kitchen.

He was still debating if he should run or not when Alfred waved a hand in front of his eyes.

"..as I was asking, Master Dick, shouldn't you be at the police station?"

"I...uh.."

Dick's uneasiness grew under the scrutinizing eye of his surrogate grandfather. Alfred's posture changed immediately, all lightness suddenly gone. "Richard, is everything alright?"

He smiled sadly. "Alf.. you might wanna sit down.."

* * *

"... so basically they hope that the chemo will do."

Alfred stared into empty space.

"Alf?" Dick started to worry.

Since he asked him to sit down and then carefully told him his news, Alfred hadn't said a word. Only his eyes had widened and his hands, neatly folded in his lap, trembled. For the first time since Dick could remember, Alfred really looked like a 72-year-old man. How he hated it.

"Say something, you're scaring me," Dick demanded and poked the butler's shoulder. But Alfred just shook his head and swallowed drily. For a second, Dick panicked at the idea that the old man might start to cry, but then the butler rose to his feet.

"You'll get through this," he said as he pulled Richard into a tight hug, "you always did."

Dick returned the embrace. He didn't know who was supposed to comfort whom, but it felt good and he cherished Alfred's open display of feelings. This physical closeness reminded him of his early days at the manor, of times when the memory of his parents' deaths was still too fresh and painful to bear, and the warmth he found in Alfred's arms back then.

Something in Dick's chest constricted as he felt that childish need to run and seek comfort again. His breath hitched almost to a sob and he pulled away quickly, slapped on a fake smile and patted Alfred's arm with reassurance he didn't really feel.

"I'd better tell Bruce now, before he glares a hole into the wall."

Alfred saw right through his facade, he was sure of it, but refrained from saying anything. He just nodded. "He's in his study."

So Richard made his way upstairs, along the hallways of the manor, towards Bruce's study. Never before had he needed that long to reach it; he knew the way by heart but was desperately stalling for time (that, and the stairs wore him out more than they ever had, but he refused to admit that). He had no idea how to tell Bruce.

Alfred was easy, he mused as he stood in front of the old wooden door and tried to get his body to move, but Alfred had actually _listened_ to him. With Bruce it would be different. He would stop him in the middle of his sentence, never accepting the notion that Dick 'just' got cancer. He would search for some cause, neglect the possibility that such things really did happen randomly. Dick could already feel all the additional needles and tests Bruce would run on him, could already hear all the questions he would be bombarded with.

Richard sighed. Nonetheless, he needed to tell him.

So he knocked lightly at the door and opened it reluctantly when no reply came.

Bruce sat at his desk, back turned to the entrance. Dick dared to enter and closed the door behind him softly.

"What are you doing here?"

Dick winced at the harsh, distanced tone of Bruce's voice. After knowing the man for almost thirteen years he knew the nuances of his voice better than he knew his own. And that tone promised the need for lots and lots of Batman-approved logic, argumented just as cold and detached, to make up for his asserted misdeeds. Usually he used that voice with Jason.

"And a 'hello, nice to see you' to you too," he answered instead. _Damn_, he really wasn't good at being cold and detached.

Bruce had whirled around on his chair angrily while Richard still congratulated himself for starting the conversation the worst way possible. He rose to his feet and marched up to Dick until they stood nose to nose.

"It would have been nice to see you last night, Richard." Batman voice, full name. He couldn't even imagine _how_ dead he was going to be in a few seconds.

"Yeah, about that, " he started nervously, taking a few steps back, ".. I..uh, need to.. uhh.. tell you something. ...maybe you should sit do-"

"Where. Have. You. Been?" Bruce wasn't going to let him off the hook so easily.

"I fell asleep," he answered honestly, and Bruce quite literally blew up in his face before he could explain _why._

"You fell asleep? _Asleep?_" he yelled. "Do you know that Damian almost got decapitated because you _fell asleep_?"

Dick's heart started to beat faster. "Barbara said nobody got hurt..."

"Oh, you had time to flirt with Oracle?" Bruce was clearly talking himself into a fit right now, and Dick could feel his own anger flaring at Bruce's insinuation. "Maybe next time you could use your communicator so the rest of us might get to know where the hell you are!"

"Gosh, if you would just listen, I ha-"

Bruce's finger stabbed into his chest painfully. "Oh no, you will listen. Last night was one of the most important chances we had on busting those dealers, and you blew it."

Dick stared wide-eyed at the man he considered a father, and he was sure the hurt and disappointment was clearly displayed on his face. Bruce was too mad to see it, or maybe he just didn't care. With every word he spat into Dick's direction, his anger rose.

"Please, Bruce, just let me expla-"

But Bruce would have none of it, and cut him off again. "You explained yourself very well a moment ago."

"Damn it Bruce, this is important!" Dick yelled upset and finally got Bruce to shut up and turn towards him. But instead of listening to what Richard was trying desperately to say, his expression just darkened and his voice dropped an octave, barely a whisper anymore.

"What could be more important than showing up yesterday?" he asked dangerously.

_My life!,_ Richard wanted to scream at him, but disappointment cut off his voice. Wasn't there anything Bruce could imagine as more important? He hadn't even asked if he was alright! Alfred had seen through his act in a few minutes, but Bruce was so caught up in his world of crime that he would never see what was important elsewhere. Hurt rose in his chest. This wasn't how he wanted this to happen, he didn't want to spit his diagnosis out like that.

When he failed to come up with a reply to Bruce's question, the older man's patience ended. Bruce walked up to him and grabbed his arm roughly. Dick yelped when he was suddenly yanked backwards, and then found himself outside of the study with the wooden door slamming shut in his face.

Bruce had thrown him out.

He stared at the door for several minutes, until the message finally sank in.

Bruce had thrown him out.

He felt like crying.

He felt like screaming and stomping his feet.

He felt like setting the whole place on fire.

He wanted to tear the goddamn door down and scream into Bruce's face that he was probably going to die and that Bruce should finally get the stick out of his ass and act like a human being.

Instead, Dick walked up to the small telephone table in the hallway and jotted down a short message on one of the note pad sheets: _'I fell asleep after chemotherapy yesterday. Sorry.'_

He slipped the piece of paper underneath the door of the study and then fled the manor.

Alfred called him from somewhere down the halls, but Dick ignored him.

-tbc-

* * *

_good news, I found out how to edit! So go on, point out the mistakes you find._


	4. Chapter 3

_Warnings: long author's note at the end._

**LIFELINES**

**CHAPTER THREE**

Dick knew exactly what was going to happen in the moment he opened the apartment door.

The myriads of unanswered calls or messages that had disrupted his and Barbara's lunch were proof enough.

He had decided to stay in Gotham a while longer after storming out of the manor and visited Babs. The first call came about an hour later, and Richard ignored it completely without having so much as a bad conscience. In fact, after telling Barbara _why _he was giving Bruce the cold shoulder, it became extremely funny to prevent her from snatching the phone and giving Bruce a piece of her mind. A few times he had to throw himself sideways to avoid being crushed under her wheelchair; one time she actually managed to knock him over and fetched the phone out of midair - luckily the ringing had stopped just in the moment she pushed the button.

All in all, what started as a disastrous day turned into fun and laughter with Barbara, and it reminded Dick again why he had been in love with her for so many years.

But Dick grew tired quickly, and of course the former Batgirl noticed it as well. She offered him a spot on her couch, but Dick declined... He knew what was awaiting him in his apartment, and there was no point in delaying it further.

The way back turned out to be exhausting. Of course he managed to hit the evening rush hour, the traffic was moving slowly and Dick could feel his eyelids drop.

When he began to feel nauseous, he pulled out of traffic. Barbara's lunch had been a bit too heavy for Dick's newly developed tastes, but he hadn't had the heart to tell her. Thankfully Babs hadn't demanded him to eat more than the tiny portion he forced down, but he could feel every bite of it threatening to make its way back up again.

So Dick crawled over to the passenger seat and opened the door in case the threat came true. He gulped down the cold air and waited patiently for the nausea to ebb away. _What a waste of time_, he thought grimly, sliding down deeper into the seat. He glanced at his watch warily; seven p.m. He had been awake for only eight hours but barely managed to keep his eyes open. The times when he was able to pull a twelve-hour-patrol and then leave for work seemed so far away already, it was frustrating to say the least.

The chemo had been pretty benevolent towards him so far, if the nurses and doctors could be trusted. Richard's physical condition belated the rough side effects his fellow chemo patients had to endure. Two weeks ago, he had met a teenager with some other sort of leukemia at the hospital who had started treatment at about the same time as he did- when Dick had seen her during his last appointment yesterday, he almost hadn't recognized her. The weight loss, the paleness, the bald spots on her scalp... it wasn't so much the shock of seeing her in that condition that scared him senseless, it was the certainty of knowing that he himself would look like that in the near future. It was just a question of time.

Sure, there were the nausea and the tiredness, and a few days ago the vomiting had begun, but all that was just the prelude... and knowing that didn't help one bit.

Dick's phone rang and pulled him out of his depressing thoughts. Bruce again, the display told him, and for the first time he let a smile spread across his face. He hadn't turned it off the whole afternoon for a reason, and thankfully Barbara had never asked him to do so. Truth was, as annoying as the steady, interrupting buzzing and ringing had been, he enjoyed every second of it. The calls were the sincere apology he would never get out of Bruce in person, and therefore he cherished it. Much.

The nausea had subsided to a tolerable level, one Dick was used to by now. He started the engine and made his way back to Blüdhaven, mentally already trying to imagine the conversation he was going to have with Bruce.

* * *

He could feel Batman's presence the moment he opened his door. True enough, hurried steps carried the billionaire into sight only a few seconds later.

They looked at each other for a moment, each one trying to assess the other's state. Dick was taken aback- Bruce looked more worn out than he had seen him in a long time. His hair was a mess, his shirt collar was crumpled. No tie? Under normal circumstances that fact alone would have made him seriously worried about Gotham's existence. But then again, he himself wasn't exactly an image of health right now.

"Where have you been?" Bruce asked with a rough voice after a while.

"Gotham," Dick couldn't resist to answer, barely managing to keep the corners of his lips from twitching.

Bruce didn't find it funny at all, apparently. "Why didn't you answer your phone, I've been worried sick!"

The word choice alone made him laugh this time, much to Bruce's irritation.

He walked past him into the bathroom, chuckling, and emerged again with a handful of pill bottles to make his way into the kitchen. "How did you survive Alfred?" Dick asked in a smalltalk voice.

Bruce followed him hesitantly. "He's mad." Dick hummed in approval while he rummaged through his cupboards for a glass. "At you too, for running away like that."

_Running away?_ _More like being thrown out, thank you very much,_ Richard thought indignantly, but instead said deliberately provocative: "Oh, don't worry about that. I'm the cancer kid now; people will let me get away with much more from now on. Coffee?"

Bruce angrily battered the empty cup away Dick was offering him.

"Is this a joke to you?"

At this, Richard turned around to face Bruce and extended his arms. "Yes, Bruce, I think the whole situation is extremely funny."

Bruce failed to respond immediately. Instead, he just watched Richard, with an unreadable expression. For the first time Dick noticed the piece of paper he had slid under the door of the study, crumpled in Bruce's hand.

"So it's true?" his somehow-father asked after a while.

"Yes.".

They avoided looking at each other. Dick went on with preparing his medicine.

"For how long now?" Bruce wanted to know in a quiet voice.

"I've been diagnosed three weeks ago, I think. Treatment started two weeks ago."

Bruce sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" He was almost sounding hurt now. Almost.

"You were in Hong Kong."

"You could have called."

"I didn't want to tell it over the phone."

Anger washed over Bruce's features. "And this is better?" he snapped, waving the piece of paper frantically.

Dick turned to him, equally angry, but Bruce went on before he could formulate his answer. "Did you consider that Tim or Damian could have found this? Can you imagine how I felt when I read that you have _cancer_?"

"Yes, it's probably similar to being told that you have it."

Bruce grew silent after that.

"I'm sorry," he admitted finally, sighing. "I don't know how to deal with this."

It felt good to hear it. Dick's anger melted away at once. "Yeah, me neither," he said honestly, gulped down his pills and sat down on the chair facing Bruce.

"So what now?"

He shrugged. "Not much. Wait and see if the chemo works."

"What if it doesn't?"

"Bone marrow transplantation. If they find a donor."

"Do you have a doctor's report?" _Ahhh_, there he was. The detective. For a second, Dick had almost believed he had been talking with the worried parent.

"On my desk. There are two, one from my hematologist and one from my oncologist."

Bruce winced slightly at the word and looked at Richard for a long time before standing up. "I'll take a look at it, you should pack in the meantime."

Dick stayed seated, baffled. He needed a second to figure the last part out. Then he sprang to his feet and followed the older man to his bedroom.

"You want me to do _what_?"

Bruce was already reading the file. "You should pack."

"What for?" Richard felt his stomach drop. He knew the direction where this was going, and he didn't like it.

"For Gotham, you're coming with me."

"Why would I do this?" Dick asked faintly and leaned against the door frame for support.

"You can't stay on your own. And you'll need to be treated in Gotham General."

"I'm very comfortable with Blüdhaven All Saints, thank you."

That made Bruce finally look up and frown. "Don't be ridiculous, you can't seriously ask Leslie to come over to Blüdhaven to check you out."

Oh God, he had been right from the start. Dick had hoped so badly that his predictions of Bruce's behaviour were wrong, but he had been absolutely right. He could feel the dizziness coming up.

"I don't need to be checked out anymore. My results are very clear."

Bruce laid said results back onto the desk. "You're 23, 23-year-olds don't just get leukemia."

Suddenly, Richard felt every aching bone in his body; the tiredness came back with force.

"What do you mean with that?" he asked hoarsely, dreading the worst.

"There is something we're missing, some detail that hasn't been detected by your doctors..."

Richard closed his eyes while Bruce ranted on. Agitatedly he made speculations about possible causes and treatment variations, but all Dick could see or hear were the additional needles and blood samples. He could feel the bruise on his upper arm that would form after Bruce had dragged him from A to B, from examination to examination and back. He could smell the laboratory scent and Leslie's perfume, could feel the hands poking and probing him and began to feel sick.

"I think you should go now," he interrupted his surrogate father weakly.

Bruce halted, surprised. "What?" he asked, then made his way over to where Dick was standing and grabbed his shoulders. Hard. "What do you mean?"

Dick felt tired, so tired. He couldn't look at Bruce's face anymore.

"I said, you should go. I can't deal with all this now."

Bruce stared at him aghastly. "_What?_ You can't deal with _what_?"

"With you!" Richard shook off the hands and retreated a few steps, out of Bruce's reach. "I need to figure this out, okay? I can't sit around in laboratories or hospitals more than I already do. There is nothing more to it, there is no conspiracy or villain attack or whatever! I just don't have the strength to deal with you right now." He ran a shaking hand through his hair and glanced into Bruce's direction. His expression was unreadable. Anger? Disappointment? Sadness?

"Don't you understand...?" He added after a few minutes of silence, and hated how his voice cracked.

"No," Bruce replied with the Batman voice, and Dick knew that there was no way he could make him understand. Human feelings were too irrational for Bruce in general, and Batman was even worse. "You can't deal with me right now? What does that mean?"

Dick felt like crying. "You.. you make it all about Gotham. All about your mission. I don't need that right now." He crossed his arms, sounding like a five-year-old.

"That's not true. I'm trying to find an answer; how else should I react to all this?"

_A hug would have been nice_, Richard thought, but didn't say it out loud. The rejection hurt Bruce, he could see it, but his mind started to feel fuzzy and wouldn't work fast enough to come up with a better solution.

"It's true," he answered therefore, and went on quickly before Bruce could interrupt. "When I didn't show up last night, and neither of you could reach me... did you ever worry that anything could have happened to me? Or were you just angry because the mission had failed?"

When Bruce didn't say anything, the answer was obvious.

"You really want me to leave?" he asked.

Richard nodded. "I'll stay in touch," he offered reservedly.

Bruce walked past him without another word. Dick heard the door opening.

"Don't tell Tim and Damian yet," he called before Bruce was gone.

"...You'll do it?"

"Yeah.. I'll need a while, though."

Bruce nodded slowly, then turned around for good and closed the door behind him.

Dick sighed deeply and stared at the spot where Bruce had vanished.

He had just thrown out Bruce Wayne. Jason would be so proud.

_Jason..._

The gear wheels in his head started to turn, his lips twitched into a smile as a plan finally formed in his head... He could make this work. He could turn this fucked up situation around.

Now he only needed to find Jay.

* * *

As it turned out, there was no need to worry about that specific part. Only a few days later, Jason found him.

_-tbc-_

* * *

_Coming up next: Jason!_

_Okay, before you all kill me, let me explain. I like Bruce, I really do. I just think he is a lost case when it comes to human interaction and is obsessed with his mission. He is very lucky to have people around him that know how to deal with him. Under usual circumstances that's fine, but Dick's situation is not usual and I can't imagine someone who is sick and tired to be up to Bruce's behaviour. I wanted this chapter to show that Bruce really does care, but in another way than Dick would need him to. So, yeah. Now you may kill me. But then you will miss Jason._

_This chapter turned out much longer than I planned it to be. It's very important to me. Actually, the whole story was created around these and last chapter's scenes between Bruce and Dick. So I hope you like it. The responses I got for the last chapter were incredible, thank you __so__ much. Especially to those of you who spotted mistakes and told me about it. You are great. _

_Sorry for those who want to see Tim and Damian's reactions, Jason will take up some time now, and he's really not good with sharing. But they will appear, I promise. One reviewer worried that Damian might find Dick's note in Bruce's study. It actually made me bang my head against the desk for not coming up with that great idea. Dear anonymous reviewer, you are a genius._

_Love, Pekuxumi_


	5. Chapter 4

**LIFELINES**

**CHAPTER FOUR**

On the third day, Jason started to worry.

It wasn't a defined feeling; certainly none he was used to. It was more like an uncomfortable dizziness in the pit of his stomach that told him something was definitely wrong - he just couldn't put his finger on it.

Neither was the feeling directed at something specific. He was used to worry about the amount of spare ammunition he had stashed in his pockets before jumping into a bulk of idiotic criminals; he was used to worry about concussions and yes, maybe sometimes he was also worried about his fellow vigilantes, if he had just found them in a puddle of their own blood.

Sometimes. Depending on the vigilante. Okay, _fine_, he sometimes worried about Harper.

But the feeling he had now, in the middle of BlüdhavenCity and in bright daylight, was different.

Something was just wrong- the longer he waited, the stronger the feeling got. Sure, walking around in a strange city in sunlight wasn't his usual style, but that wasn't it. Not all of it.

Something was off, it was damn obvious in Blüdhaven, but he wouldn't have cared one bit if it didn't also affect Gotham. It affected Batman. And Jason had learned very early that what affected Batman concerned him too, eventually.

About a week ago Batman had become violent. Very violent. Jason hadn't interfered, but had watched. The criminals- petty criminals, not even the big ones!- had been crushed under the big hands of his former mentor, blood had decorated the walls, and for a second, Jason had truly believed that Batman had killed the gang leader. He was wrong, of course, since Red Replacement had to haul the pulp that had once been a person to the hospital.

Jason couldn't be too sure about it since he never got real close, but it had seemed as if the Demon Spawn and the Replacement both looked shocked.

The same thing had happened over the course of the next days, and Jason had started to get suspicious.

Violence was nothing new to Batman, and Jason knew the man behind the mask well enough to guess what had predicted that behaviour: something was up with Dick Grayson. Only two factors could provoke the Dark Knight to actually have feelings: Gotham and the Golden Boy. It couldn't be the first, Jason would know about it. So it had to be the latter.

Not much research was needed to find out that Nightwing hadn't been seen in Gotham for a while now. He couldn't be in serious trouble- Jason would know. A dead or hurt vigilante wasn't something that stayed a secret for long, especially not one who kept all the female journalists as busy as the former Boy Wonder did.

Jason became curious. Some major fall-out between Grayson and Bruce was the most logical option, since they happened regularly and usually sent them both into sulking mode- which meant that Batman worked out his frustration in Gotham, while Dick took off to hide away in Blüdhaven or his circus until he had cooled down.

But when Jason arrived in Blüdhaven (nothing to do in Gotham with Bruce on a rampage and he wanted to find out what could possibly piss him off so badly), he found the city in a desolate state. The first night had been seriously nerve-wracking, worse than Gotham. Jason hadn't intervened in any crime to prevent raising any attention to himself, and had waited patiently for Nightwing. Grayson was way too dutiful to leave the city in such a state only because of an argument with Daddy.

But Nightwing didn't appear, not that night and not the night after. So on the third day, a feeling that one could maybe _-maybe!-_ call worry settled in Jason's bones.

On the third day, therefore, Jason decided to pay his 'big bro' a visit.

He knew the address, Dick had told him in a sappy moment, and Jason was sappy enough to recall it immediately. Damn his good memory.

Of course, he didn't plan to ring the doorbell. Dick lived right under the roof, as far up as possible. He was so predictable, it was a miracle that no villain or enraged ex-girlfriend had thrown him out of a window by now.

Jason climbed up the fire escape stair case and carefully peeked through the tilted kitchen window. Grayson wasn't anywhere in sight, but that sloppy security measure alone was slightly worrisome.

Without any further ado, Jason twisted his arm through the opening, grabbed the window frame, and removed the whole thing with a few clever flicks of the wrist. A silent alarm was probably going off in Oracle's clock tower, but Jason didn't mind. He didn't plan on staying long.

He had never been in Dick's apartment before. It was interesting, to say the least, but all in all not very enlightening. It seemed kind of.. unused to Jason, but considering the time Richard spent away thanks to Nightwing, Demon Spawn taming and his police job, that wasn't surprising. The bedroom turned out to be the complete opposite, much to Jason's amusement. A ridiculous amount of blankets piled over the bed, only topped by the (slightly disgusting) tower of dirty laundry that had taken residence in one corner of the room.

Jason decided to wait for his 'brother'. There was nothing better to do in this boring city, and the prospect of drinking a beer while watching TV on Richard's widescreen television was quite entertaining.

...only that there wasn't any beer in the fridge. In fact, there was nothing in it.

"What the fuck..?" Jason muttered aloud while he stared into the empty box. Okay, there was a milk jug, and some white plastic container, but.. food? Hello?

_That_ was strange.

Troubled, he took out the white container. There was no label or anything on it, but whatever was in it rattled a lot when he moved the box. Curiosity got the better of him: Jason opened the lid, and stared dumbstruck at the numerous orange pill bottles that lay in it.

He grabbed one and read the badge. Dick's name was on it. Daily intake advise. Definitely only available by prescription. Jason stared at the name in bold print but couldn't make any sense of it. Dolasetron? Never heard of. He gazed at the others- Ferumoxytol? Erythropoietin?.._ what the hell?_

He was seriously confused now. Was there something up with Dick's blood? The last name indicated red blood cells, right? Did the idiot manage to get poisoned again? But that quantity of different medications...

He saw a folded note between the bottles. Jason spotted the names he had just read on it- a fucking _treatment plan_. Something was definitely wrong here.

He shut the lid again and put the container back into the fridge, then slammed the door shut with more force than necessary. The dizzy feeling in his stomach intensified and then settled to a very unambiguous uneasiness. Dick's disappearance seemed way more scary now. Somehow, the Golden Boy must have gotten sick, seriously sick in fact. Batman's demonic drill contained a basic medical knowledge, but Jason wasn't able to recognize one of the medicine names he had just read- couldn't even keep them in memory. This was no basic flu medication.

He was pacing around, he noticed suddenly. He only did that when he was nervous. _Shit._ He ordered his feet to stop and then tried to calm himself down- there was no need to worry, none of this was his concern, there was no reason he should care.

He had almost convinced himself when he realized that he was standing right in front of a calendar that was full of red penciled days. He took a closer look, today was one of those marked dates. The next one was four days from now. There were letters and numbers scribbled down in Richard's scrawly handwriting. _'2OOPM BASH 2nd ATU'_, was all he was able to make out.

* * *

Jason found himself in front of the Blüdhaven All Saints Hospital, truly and honestly pissed at the world and everything.

He had fled Richard's apartment four days ago._ Fled_. The whole situation had been too strange, a sudden wave of claustrophobia had hit him like never before, and he hadn't been able to stay one second longer in the apartment. It had been embarrassing, and Jason was angry at himself.

Even worse, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about what he had found. He had been back in Gotham at the end of the day, determined to never visit Blüdhaven again. Grayson was alive, who cared about his health? He had somehow poisoned himself, or fell from some stupid building or got shot. Maybe some major injury which needed intensive medical attention. Yeah, that was likely. Actually, a serious injury was long overdue, considering their kind of profession.

Probably shot. It would explain Batman's fury. Maybe the bullet hit the liver or a kidney, and now he had to take some damn medicine that affected his blood.

He had been satisfied with that explanation, but the feeling in his stomach still hadn't lessened. It didn't help much that he had figured pretty fast that _'200PM BASH 2nd ATU'_ probably was a doctor's appointment: _2:00 p.m., Blüdhaven All Saints Hospital._ The rest of the note, therefore, was very likely a specific hospital section.

On the fourth day, he gave up and drove back to Blüdhaven, parked his bike in some alley and made his way to the hospital. In a very, very bad mood.

Grayson better had some beer in storage now.

Checking out the hospital layout confirmed his suspicions fast: there were two ambulant treatment units – '_ATU'_.

He made his way towards the second one, growling at everyone who crossed his path.

The second ambulant treatment unit wasn't much more than a big room that contained a handful of beds and cupboards. Nothing out of the ordinary. Some of the beds were hidden by flimsy curtains, indicating that they were occupied, and a few nurses hurried across the room to check on infusions and vital signs. Richard was nowhere in sight.

Jason waited a few minutes. Soon, only one nurse remained in the room, and when she disappeared behind one of the curtains, he entered silently.

Soundlessly, he made his way through the room, glancing at the papers and charts that lay on the drawer cabinets beside the hidden beds. His eyes finally found a familiar name and he stopped abruptly, picking up the file.

He was about to open it, when a well-known voice piped up and made him flinch.

"Aww, there's some awful private stuff on there, Jay. Where are your manners?"

Grayson. Crap.

Jason had hoped to avoid this, but Daddy's Golden Boy had probably noticed him the second he had stepped into the room.

Grudgingly, he drew the curtain to the side and revealed a very brightly grinning Dick Grayson. Ack, how annoying. Jason could feel his patience wearing thin immediately.

"Why private? Does it list all your sexually transmitted diseases?" he asked while turning his attention towards the file again. Dick laughed quietly. The lack of witty comeback was quite agreeable to Jason.

His eyes skimmed through the tables and short annotations.

"Richard John Grayson... referred with suspected diagnosis of bla bla... high leukocyte-level... _boring... _low erythrocyte-level..._boooring!_... blood platelets count... _aha! _..has been diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia." ..._Woah?_

_...what?!_

He stared at the letters, perplexed, his mind trying to make sense out of them. He knew what they meant, of course he did, but that was just impossible. His eyes wandered slowly up to Grayson, who was patiently waiting for him to catch up.

"But that's.." He started incredulously, his eyes now noticing the IV line that stuck in his brother's arm and went all up to a vicious looking bottle with a biohazardous warning on it.

"Oh, yeah. I hope you excuse my terrible host qualities. I would love to offer you some, but I fear I have just emptied it on my own." Dick's eyes had followed his and rested on the same bottle, which was indeed almost empty by now. "I can offer you to sit down, though." He nodded towards a lonely chair beside Jason, who sat down heavily on it.

A thought crossed his mind. "You're undercover?" he whispered.

Grayson laughed again, the bastard. "No Jay, wish I was."

"But.." Jason's mind tried desperately to digest what he had just read. "..that means.."

"Cancer, yes." Richard answered for him way too sober.

Suddenly, Jason wished there would be a bullet wound, a perforated liver or nicked artery. They had plenty of experience with that. _This_.. this was new. And impossible. His mind still refused to accept it. Dick didn't get cancer. There was just no way how anything like this could happen to Daddy's sheltered and cuddled Golden Child.

He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat.

"Jason," Dick pulled him out of his musing, "Are you alright?"

Jason blinked at the irony. Did the idiot really just..? For the first time, Jason really registered the figure in front of him. Pale, dark shades under his eyes. The shirt he wore was lose fit, but he was pretty sure that Dick had lost some pounds.

The empty fridge visualized in front of his inner eye. The box full of medicine.

This was real.

And the idiot actually had the nerve to ask _him_ if he was alright?

Jason just opened his mouth to (try to) speak, but a busy looking nurse appeared beside him and interrupted whatever he wanted to say.

"Richard, I think you're done for today." Already she hovered over Dick's arm and disconnected him from the IV line. "You know the procedure, stay seated for a few more minutes, ring if anything comes up."

Dick promised to, and then they were alone again.

Jason still stared at him, and Richard started to get nervous under the scrutiny.

"What now?" he asked hoarsely.

Richard shrugged. "Now I'm going home. You missed the fun part where I tried to drink and throw up simultaneously, I'm afraid." His eyes wandered to a well-hidden bucket at the head of the bed, but Jason rather not looked at it too closely.

"I'm.. sorry," Jason finally got out. That was what people said in such a situation, right? Man, he was completely at a loss.

Dick looked at him surprised, then smiled genuinely. "Nothing to be sorry for, Jaybird. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I couldn't contact you.. glad you dropped by, though."

"Yeah, I was.." Jason failed to come up with a good answer. Why hadn't he checked earlier? He felt a feeling swell up in his chest that was awful close to regret... _Regret_? There was nothing to regret! How should he know if no one told him anything? One of the bats.. ahh, there it was. Anger. A feeling he was much more accustomed to. He settled for anger and stood up quickly.

"I'd better be gone before Daddy arrives to wrap you up in cotton wool."

Dick laughed at that, and Jason swore he had never heard anything so close to a sneer coming out of the Golden Boy's mouth. "Daddy's not coming, Jay, don't worry."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asked bewildered, halting midway in motion.

Richard avoided Jason's eyes. "We're not exactly on speaking terms, right now."

Woah, when had he entered the twilight zone?

"You're not exactly on speaking terms? What the fuck?" He turned to Dick again.

His brother smiled bitterly. "I kinda threw him out the last time we met, we haven't spoken since."

"You threw him out?" Jason couldn't help but grin broadly. He liked this twilight zone. But then it hit him, and the smile faded. "He _knows _about you but sulks in Gotham?"

Richard nodded absentmindedly and shrugged.

Jason huffed. That was wrong on so many levels, he didn't even know where to begin. And foremost, it made his carefully constructed certainty about Bruce and his favorite child sway. That just couldn't be, right?

"So.. Alfred is picking you up?" he asked carefully.

Dick shook his head.

"The replacement?"

"Doesn't even know yet. No one from Gotham is picking me up, Jay."

On cue, the nurse's voice called through the room. "Richard? Your taxi just called. There was an accident on main street, he's stuck."

"Tss, probably caused it himself..." Dick mumbled and rolled his eyes.

Jason watched how he stood up slowly and noticed how some more colour drained from his brother's face.

"So what now?"

"I'll just take the bus."

Jason didn't believe his ears. "You can't be serious."

"I'll survive," Dick answered, shrugging, but started to sway just in that second.

Jason grabbed his arm out of reflex. "That's bullshit," he growled and started to pull his protesting brother towards the door. "I'll drive you."

….

Definitely twilight zone.

-tbc-

* * *

_Yepp, I did it. I changed the POV. Don't worry, Dick will be back in a while. Just had to establish another perspective, for times when Richard won't be able to narrate.. if you get what I mean. _

_Also, I need to tell you that real life obligations are coming up (if you can call university real life..), and I'll have to concentrate on that more. No hiatus alarm. I plan on updating once a week, maybe earlier or later, depending on my frustration level. You are warned. Rants about Frankenstein and/or Bill Clinton are very likely._

_...I love Jason._


	6. Chapter 5

**LIFELINES**

**CHAPTER FIVE**

_-three weeks later-_

"Jason!"

Oracle's voice piped up and made Jason flinch so hard that he fucked up his landing.

"What the hell!?"

Cursing, he hefted himself back onto his knees and elbows and glanced around warily, sure that somewhere, some crazy villain was laughing heavily at his expense.

"Jason you need to –"

"How the hell did you hack this frequency?!" he interrupted angrily, "How did you even know I'm connected?! Who of your goddamn batfriends is listenin –"

Oracle huffed, annoyed. "No one's listening, and hacking your codes really isn't that much of a challenge."

"What do you want?" This had better be good...

"You need to get to Blüdhaven."

...and his blood ran cold.

"Why?" he heard himself asking, restrained, while the question in his mind expanded to _Did anything happen to Dick?_

"Dick asked me to contact you. I don't know what he wants." Oracle sounded worried, and Jason couldn't blame her. But if Richard had asked her to find him, that meant that he was okay, right? Relatively speaking. Jason released a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding, and cursed himself.

Why was he worrying so much? It wasn't like Dick was really in trouble or anything. During the last three weeks, Jason's mind had turned against him and played out every possible scenario, some of them ending with Dick's death. But whenever he tried to imagine such scenes actually occurring, it seemed ridiculous. Richard wouldn't die from some stupid cancer, he was way too stubborn for that.

"What is this," he asked suspiciously, his natural distrust at everything bat-related prevailing. "Do you want me to check up on him?"

Oracle was silent for a few seconds, during which Jason already had made his way back to his bike.

"Sorry Jason, but considering his condition... you're really the last person I'd call if I worried."

Jason stopped short. _What? _What the hell was that supposed to mean?

"You think I would –? Come on!" That hurt. He didn't exactly know why, but it did. Did she really think he would sink so low and attack a sick person? Jason could feel his heartbeat rise, and wasn't sure if it was due to anger or something else he didn't want to think about.

"Well, you have pulled a few pretty low stunts in the past, Jaybird," Oracle answered coldly.

"Don't call me that."

"Can I tell him you're coming?"

"On my way."

With that, he threw his red helmet into the dirty alley where he had parked his bike and revved up the engine.

* * *

Richard's kitchen window was wide open. Oracle must have indeed told him he was coming.

Jason was crouching on the windowsill and tried to collect his thoughts before entering. The apartment was dark, and Dick was nowhere in sight; probably asleep as he should be.

Jason was nervous, to say the least. All the way to Blüdhaven he had been trying to imagine what Dick could want from him. He had come up with nothing but a tingling sense of guilty conscience for not checking up once or twice to see if everything was alright.

Barbara's insinuation didn't help much. He was still scandalized at what she was getting at; he would never – never! – attack Dick in his condition. But at the same time, he recalled more than a few occasions when he had indeed fought one of his 'brothers' in an injured state. Sometimes, a little voice in the back of his mind piped up, that injury had been caused by him, too.

Hmph.

On the other hand, thinking back.. Dick had kicked his ass quite royally back then. Oh, well.

Jason shook his head. Sometimes you just can't win.

He climbed into the room more noisily than necessary. Sure enough, when he turned around to close the window, he heard footsteps echoing through the apartment. For a second, his instincts couldn't reconcile them with his brother's; there was no lightness or any of the usual grace.

Then the lights were turned on and Jason turned towards the source of the steps, a quirky remark on his lips that died away the moment his eyes found Dick.

He looked terrible. While Jason drew in a breath, he questioned if that figure before him really was his annoyingly hyperactive, I-do-backflips-for-fun-brother. There was no trace of him left whatsoever. Dick was leaning against the door frame, not in a relaxed manner but clearly seeking support. Everything in his posture screamed exhaustion, something Jason had never before seen on him. He looked smaller than usual thanks to the oversized hoodie he was wearing.. though he was pretty sure that he had seen the sweater before, and it hadn't been _that_ wide.

"Jason, thanks for coming over," he said after a while, a tired smile that didn't reach his eyes on his lips. "Oracle said you didn't sound too excited."

There were many things Jason wanted to say, _should_ say, but the connection between his brain and mouth seemed severely damaged, so what he finally settled for was "Screw Oracle."

That won him a light chuckle and eased the tension of the moment.

"So, Dickiebird, what can I do for you at this ungodly hour?"

"I need to ask you for a favour," Dick answered, clearly uncomfortable. "A big one."

Jason only raised an eyebrow. What big favour could Richard want from him? What was complicated enough to make Dick, Mr. Self-Confidence, act so awkward?

He nodded towards the kitchen table, where Jason saw a few sheets of paper. Taking them up, his eyes skimmed over an email from the Devil Spawn, printed out complete with attachments.

"_Grayson_," it read, "_I assume that your current phase of inactivity results from yet another one of your annoying quarrels with Ms. Gordon. I'm sending you a mission, since you are clearly unable to find one yourself. Damian Wayne._"

Jason grinned broadly. Maybe he and the little demon had more in common than he had believed. He could feel the tension falling off his shoulders – this was about some mission. He knew how to deal with that.

The next page was a full report about a group of drug dealers active in Blüdhaven, along with dates, places and bugged emails.

"They're planning a deal tonight?" Jason asked and looked up at his brother, who had been watching him closely the whole time.

Dick nodded. "It's huge. Most of Blüdhaven's crime lords will be involved in some way or another."

"And you want me to bust it? That's it?"

There had to be a catch somewhere, Jason was sure of it. Stopping a drug deal wasn't much of a favour, not even if it meant a change in cities.

"Yeah..." Dick answered uncertainly, avoiding looking at Jason's face. "But I need you to do it as Nightwing."

And that was it. In a matter of milliseconds, Jason's temper hit the roof.

He couldn't possibly be serious, could he? Hadn't he made it perfectly clear that he didn't want to have anything to do with the Batfamily and their crusade for justice whatsoever? Did the idiot really believe he would squeeze himself into that ridiculous outfit and act all complacent and hypocritical?

"You want me to do _what?!_"

Dick flinched at the loud and harsh tone. He opened his mouth, but Jason slammed the papers back onto the table and brushed past him before he could say anything.

"Jay," he called after him. "Jason, wait!"

Jason would have none of it. Richard would be lucky he didn't slap him for that incredibly insulting idea. To think he would go and act all sanctimonious...!

"Jason, wait. _Please._"

Jason halted, perplexed. Never had he heard the Golden Child plead with him, ever. He turned around slowly, and saw that Dick had followed him into the corridor and was now approaching him cautiously, arms raised as if surrendering to some gun-wielding terrorist.

… Jason hated his mind for coming up with that analogy, and wondered briefly if Oracle had somehow taken up permanent residence in his conscience. _Argh._

"You have thirty seconds," he growled, and crossed his arms ostentatiously.

Dick ran a shaking hand through his hair. "I know it's a lot to ask, Jay, but I swear it's just this one time. I – "

Jason couldn't help but sneer at that. " Fuck you, Dick! The file said it's a large group. There will be other meetings, other thugs, and I know you and your goddamn bat-philosophy well enough to – "

"I don't care about the crime," Dick interrupted him, and Jason was truly surprised at that comment. "This is about Damian. If I don't respond to that, he'll get suspicious. I just need one photo of Nightwing beating the crap out of some criminals in a newspaper to shut him up."

Something clicked in Jason's mind. "You still haven't told them?" he asked, unbelieving. Dick shook his head slowly and sighed, and Jason saw the fatigue and exhaustion fully for the first time, without any efforts from Dick to cover it. He was paler than the last time Jason had seen him, and the bags under his eyes drew a sharp contrast. He looked sick, really sick.

"Please don't make me deal with Damian today..." Dick said faintly, and as if on clue, Jason felt his resolve melt away. Nobody should have to deal with the Demon Spawn, healthy or not.

"I don't think your outfit fits me..." he mused, and couldn't suppress a small smile when Dick beamed at him.

His brother made his way to the living-room, Jason close behind. The room was a mess, very much the opposite from what he'd seen the last time he visited, but Jason paid it no attention. He was completely mesmerized by the fact that Dick was typing a code into his safe, without even trying to hide the combination from Jason's eyes.

The door opened and revealed a bigger space behind the wall, which had been cleverly hidden through a variety of framed photographs that covered even the smallest crack in the wallpapers.

There were quite a few Nightwing costumes, as well as escrima-sticks and all the high-tech toys a bat could possibly dream of. Definitely more than he possessed. Nice.

"I've still got a larger one somewhere around here..." Dick murmured while rummaging around in the safe, "Roy helped me out once, we had to confuse Killer Croc, so we both wore- ah, there it is!"

Indeed, he pulled out a Nightwing costume, identical to the others save for the red bird on the front.

"Red?" Jason asked, amused.

Dick rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you know Roy... that was still during the Red Arrow phase. Thank God Croc was stupid enough to fall for it."

While Dick pulled out the rest of the equipment, Jason took the suit and wondered when the no-killing sermon would start. It was bound to come, and they were bound to argue about it. Some things never change. He was sure that Dick had seen his gun when he was about to walk out the door, and it was pretty obvious that he wouldn't leave without it.

"So, how am I supposed to find my way in Bl- _hey, are you okay?_"

Jason's stomach dropped. Instead of rummaging through the closet, Dick was suddenly leaning heavily against the safe door, swaying dangerously. His face was ashen, his eyes closed tightly, and the hand that grabbed his forehead was shaking uncontrollably.

"Just... dizzy..." he pressed out between clenched teeth.

"Dizzy, my ass!" Jason exclaimed with only a fraction of the panic he felt and grabbed Richard's shoulder. Underneath the fabric, his brother was shaking like a leaf.

Jason cursed his own inattentiveness. If Dick was desperate enough to ask him to play Nightwing, he had to be so sick that walking around was not an option. Fighting his own fear, Jason glanced around the room for the first time, spotted an armchair and hefted his staggering brother towards it.

Dick wasn't even protesting; he just slumped into the chair, drew up his knees and groaned weakly.

Jason felt his heartbeat slow to a normal, healthy pace and allowed himself to breathe again.

"How often does that happen?!" he demanded sharply, the adrenaline in his veins gave his voice a hard edge.

Dick's red-rimmed eyes opened slowly, as if merely lifting his lids was too exhausting in his state.

Jason decided that he didn't really want an answer to his question. Instead, he sank into the sofa and eyed his brother wearily. "What is going on?" he asked carefully, "You weren't this... bad off the last time we met." _Which was three weeks ago_, as his conscience didn't fail to remind him.

Dick only drew his knees closer and buried his trembling hands in the pocket of his hoodie. "This round's chemo medication is stronger," he answered, shrugging.

"Why?" Jason knew very well why, but refused to accept it.

"'Cause the last one wasn't working as well as the doctors hoped it would."

There really wasn't anything to say to that. Jason swallowed dryly.

"When does the drug deal start?" he asked instead, changing the topic and feeling awful.

But Dick didn't seem to mind the change in course and answered him, glancing at the clock behind Jason.

"Oracle will guide you through the city. I told her everything when you were on your way..."

They talked like that for a little while, going through the night's plan, but avoiding the important subjects or looking at each other. After a while though, Jason noticed how Dick's eyelids became heavier and heavier, and, glancing at the clock, decided it was time to go.

"You need to get some sleep, you look like shit," he announced firmly. Dick nodded absentmindedly and shifted in his armchair to a more comfortable position.

"...What the hell are you doing?"

Dick gave him a sheepish look. "The bedroom is pretty far away..."

"Oh jeez..." groaned Jason, getting up and yanking his yelping brother up roughly. "Is this how you do things when I'm not around?"

He kept on mumbling into his own beard on the way to the bedroom, partly to get the frustration out of his system, but mostly because he didn't really want to hear the answer to his question. When Dick finally fell back onto his pillows, Jason wasn't able to hold it in anymore and blurted it out.

"Aren't you afraid that I'll kill those criminals?"

"Please don't," was all Richard said to that, eyes already tightly closed and probably more asleep than awake.

Jason was taken aback. "You know I'm taking my gun with me. Aren't you gonna lecture me now about morals and stuff?"

"No. Please don't kill anybody." By the end of the sentence, he was fast asleep and had left Jason, perplexed and a bit overwhelmed, to deal with the situation alone.

* * *

_-three days later-_

Dick was busy feeling miserable and making sure his bucket was within reach when Jason appeared at the door and strode grinning through the ATU towards his bed.

"Uh... hi?" he greeted uncertainly while Jason flopped down in a chair across from him.

He hadn't seen his brother since he miraculously agreed to take on Nightwing's mantle a few days ago and had nipped the drug deal in the bud. When Richard had woken up the next morning, the costume and all his toys had been carefully placed on the living-room table, but Jason was nowhere in sight. Oracle had assured him that Jason hadn't been hurt and nobody had been killed, but Dick had still hoped that Jason would stay a while longer, at least until he was fully rested.

He really hadn't expected him to show up during his next chemo session, especially not that cheerful and brightly grinning.

Which didn't mean, of course, that he wasn't glad about it.

"Guess what I read in the newspaper today."

Jason held up an issue of the 'Blüdhaven's Gazette', with a large picture of a blurry Nightwing, flying from building to building, right on the front page. "I take it the Demon Spawn didn't interfere again?"

Dick's eyes widened, he clasped a hand over his mouth and pointed at the bucket frantically. Jason reacted at once and handed it to him, but not without making a noise that came awful close to an "eww".

So Richard groaned and bent over the bucket, but was actually only trying to hide the big grin he wasn't able to suppress – he had been right; had judged Jason correctly. Not only had he complied with the Nightwing act, he also came back, and surely not by accident during his next chemo administration. The newspaper he was wielding enthusiastically was an old one, the date he strategically hid with one of his hands displayed the date from two days ago.

Dick got a grip on himself. The grin vanished from his face and he settled back to looking sick and exhausted – which wasn't much of an act at all. He handed the bucket back to Jay while murmuring something about a false alarm and grabbed the newspaper.

His eyes skimmed through the text and over the picture, a small smile tugged at his lips. "You look good," he commented.

"Of course I do." Jason snatched the paper away, as if to prevent Dick from examining it too closely. "You're doing better?"

Dick nodded. He was doing a lot better than the last time they met, as temporary as that may be.

"So playing Nightwing was fun?"

"Not as bad as expected," Jason answered honestly, but then he turned the first page of the newspaper around and continued soberly, "Though here it states that the arrested criminals were probably only a small part of the group."

Dick refrained from pointing out that Jason had thrown that specific fact in his face earlier. Instead he tried to shrug it off, hoping inwardly for Jason to actually take the next step. "There will always be more, don't worry about them."

".. and Blüdhaven really is in a fucked up state, Dick..." Jason went on as if Richard hadn't said anything, made a gesture that should imply obviousness, but didn't vocalize the next part.

But that wasn't a problem; Richard was prepared. He knew how his brother ticked, knew how he needed some sort of fake decoy that would make his actions seem rational and egotistical, so nobody could see the emotional and utterly caring basis. He was so much like Bruce in that regard, it made Dick wonder if both men really couldn't see their similarities.

"I have a deal, Jay," Richard said therefore, and reached for his jacket. Jason raised a curious eyebrow, willing to listen.

"You continue as Nightwing in Blüdhaven until you've managed to keep the drug deal at bay," – Jason huffed in fake indignation – "and as barter, you'll get this." At this, Dick flipped his car keys over to Jason.

Jason's eyes widened as he recognized what had literally just been dropped into his lap.

"_The Lexus?_" he asked disbelievingly. "Are you kidding me?"

Dick shook his head with a sad smile that would make Jason shut up if he could pry his eyes away from the shiny metal. "Doesn't look as if I'll be using it soon, and it would really be a waste to let it rust in the garage..."

"Dude, you're totally getting the short end of the stick here!" Jason was only seconds away from drooling over the keys, and Dick couldn't help but chuckle.

"So we have a deal?" he asked superfluously.

Jason sobered immediately. "I can't abandon Gotham completely."

"No need to," Dick negotiated, "If we concentrate on the drugs, it's enough if you're here once a week."

"I guess I could manage two days a week..." Jason thought aloud.

Preventing his lips from turning upward got harder and harder. "Just keep in mind that I'll be completely useless after chemo."

Jason glanced at him. "So basically you'll only be fit on non-chemo days? You get treatment every third day, right?"

Dick nodded expectantly. This was working out way too well.

"Then I'll clean up your mess on chemo days, and you can do all the research and stuff while you're fit." Pleased with himself, Jason leaned back. "We have a deal. I need to bounce now, though."

He waved his good-bye and turned around. Before he could get away, Dick threw him the last hint.

"Do you want your own set of keys for my flat, in case I need to stay at the hospital sometimes?"

Jason turned around, contemplative, then grinned smugly and jangled his new keys. "Nah, I'll just pick you up. Gotta show off my new wheels, right?"

Dick allowed himself a mental pat on the back.

If he got out of this shit alive and his Nightwing position was still taken, he could always settle for the role of the scheming villain.

_-tbc-_

* * *

_Most awesome news: The lovely Callypse has offered to beta this story! Since this chapter was kind of a b****, she really saved me a lot of embarrassment with making sense out of my weird punctuation and the prepositions I tend to throw into the pot randomly. English, your prepositions suck. _

_So far the schedule I planned to balance RL and writing works out fine, so the next chapter will be up in about a week. Can't promise anything though, since the chapters are getting longer and longer, and chances are high that my beta will flush everything down the toilet if I write under caffeine influence again. ;P_

_Your feedback is as great as ever!_

_Love, Pekuxumi_


	7. Chapter 6

**LIFELINES**

**CHAPTER SIX**

_-two weeks later-_

Jason climbed the stairs to Richard's apartment, carrying a large shopping bag full of groceries in one hand and searching for his keys with the other.

Dick had handed him said keys wordlessly last week, after Jason had to climb through the kitchen window again to pick up his passed out brother from the bathroom tiles. The stronger medication brought a stronger reaction of Dick's body along with it, which resulted in fun episodes such as 'How to Pass Out in the Bathroom' or 'Three Ways to Puke Your Guts Out', but most of all in postponements, prolongations or reductions of Richard's hospital visits. All in all, their terms of agreement about picking Dick up after chemo didn't work out. Jason had offered to come earlier, to pick Dick up and stay during chemo sessions. Dick had been truly relieved, and some unknown, warm feeling in his chest had told Jason that it was the right thing to do.

Today, he had dropped Dick off at the hospital and excused himself, stating he had something important to do. Half an hour later he had been standing in the queue in front of the supermarket checkout counter when his brother had texted him. The message was a short one, telling him that chemo was postponed and Dick was on his way home.

_Probably with a cab_, Jason thought, and felt the kind of perturbation he had discovered he was capable of since learning about Dick's condition.

Surprisingly, keeping an eye on his brother wasn't half as nerve-wracking as he had thought it would be. Indeed, without Nightwing's arrogant behaviour and cockiness, Dick was actually a very facile person. It had been quite an epiphany for Jason, who only then had realized that they never before had spent time together as Dick and Jay. It had always been Nightwing and Red Hood, or Nightwing and Robin, with hard-wired issues of steady moral codes or jealousy between them. But with Dick too exhausted to care about much and Jason with his newfound sympathy, they got along better than ever.

What he could have very well done without, on the other hand, was all the additional emotional stuff that came with liking someone, like _worry_. He was quite capable of keeping it at bay most of the time, but it made its steady appearances...While he was waiting in line in a supermarket, for example. Why had they postponed the chemo again? Postponed to when? Why hadn't Dick called him to pick him up?

Now, he was fiddling with the keys to Dick's apartment and hoped his brother wasn't there yet. He really didn't need the embarrassment of him finding out that Jason had been shopping for groceries for him. He still had a reputation to maintain, after all.

The shoes behind the door told him this wasn't his lucky day. So he put down the bag, went searching for Richard and found him wrapped in a ridiculous amount of blankets on the living room sofa.

"Hi Jay..." a weak voice piped up from somewhere under the pile.

"What's up? Or better, what's wrong?" Jason asked casually as he made his way over.

The blanket mountain moved, and a very pale and nauseous looking Richard became visible.

"Chemo is postponed until tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Apparently, my blood pressure is too low today." There was an edge of annoyance in Dick's voice, as if he didn't believe the nurses and doctors.

Jason became suspicious. Dick had said he felt fine when he drove him to the hospital, but Jason had learned very early during their make-shift deal that "I'm fine" held many shades in his brother's vernacular.

"You _do_ look sick," he argued therefore, and didn't miss but ignored Richard's batglare as he reached out and grabbed his wrist. "... and your pulse _is_ pretty weak."

"I have cancer, what did you expect? A picture of health?" Dick snapped back and snatched his wrist away so he could cross his arms and sulk properly.

Jason would have been pissed under normal circumstances, but that clear display of symptoms right in front of him triggered Daddy's medical training.

"When was the last time you ate?" he asked firmly, a hypothesis already in the back of his mind.

Dick closed his eyes and shuddered slightly. "Don't make me think about it."

"I'm serious."

"Me too."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"_Dick!_"

"What does it matter? It didn't stay down for long anyway."

Jason sighed theatrically and shook his head. Hypothesis affirmed. "Goldie, you have low blood pressure thanks to low blood sugar." Dick sneered. "That's also why you feel sick and behave as if you had PMS."

"I _don't_ –"

"Wait a second," Jason disrupted Richard's protest and walked out of the room, rummaged in the grocery bag, fished something out of it and went back to his still sulking brother.

"Drink this," he said and pushed the carton into Richard's hands.

"What's that?" His brother asked while opening the lid.

"Chocolate milk," Jason felt a blush creeping over his face when Dick looked up at him surprised.

"Where did you even get tha... have you been _shopping_ for me? Aww, Jay, that's really sw –_ mmph!_"

"_Drink. This_." Jason repeated in a low voice and emphasized it by shoving the carton into Dick's face. Florence Nightingale wouldn't approve, but the idiot did what he was supposed to do.

They were silent for a little while, Dick taking small sips, and Jason watching how some colour returned to his face. Then he sighed, crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall.

"Dick, this isn't working out."

Richard raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"You need help. Living alone is just not an option anymore."

"It works just fine." Dick obviously didn't want to talk about it, but now that Jason had started, there was no turning back.

"I can't be here 24/7."

"Don't worry, Jay. You're a pretty good nurse."

"That's not it." Jason was already losing his patience. He understood that Richard wanted to save his independence for as long as possible, but –hell, he was probably the last person to lecture him about it– he needed to talk with Bruce. There was a fine line between reason and stupidity, and Dick was taking the wrong track.

"Then what is it?"

"How long do you think you will be able to hold up? You can barely manage to walk to the bathroom when I'm not around!"

Richard's face began to cloud, a growl audible.

"You need to make up with Bruce." Jason said finally. They had avoided everything concerning Bruce, Batman or Gotham so far for both of their sakes. Jason had been sure that Bruce would get a grip on himself soon and would finally show up – his absence in this mess was inexcusable and made Jason's beliefs about their relationship seriously obsolete; but even more astonishing was Dick's stubbornness and utter refusal to give in. Like now.

Dick sneered. "Hn, look who's talking."

So they were going down _that_ path. Jason had seen it coming; it had only been a matter of time. Still, he tried to remain the voice of reason, a position he was really not well acquainted with.

"Look," he tried with a daring shot into the dark, "I know Bruce is a stubborn bastard. I know how hard it is to get him to actually behave like a human being. But this show you're pulling here.." Jason made a gesture that indicated the whole situation, "it's not working. This is not the way to get his attention."

Dick laughed dismissively, venom dripping from his voice. "That's rich coming from the guy who's killing people because Daddy won't hug him."

In a few seconds, Jason was right in Dick's face, hand gripping the fabric of his brother's shirt and _so_ close to losing control.

"Say that again, Boy Wonder." he growled in his best Batman imitation.

Dick wasn't impressed at all. He just looked up at Jason calmly, no expression whatsoever on his face. "I said_,_ that's rich co–"

Jason's grip hardened; he was on the verge of doing something very, very stupid, like hitting his sick and defenseless, but utterly deserving, brother. "Now don't you dare act as if you have _any_ idea about me and Bruce," he gritted out between clenched teeth.

"Oh, and_ you_ have any idea about Bruce?" The figure under his grip chuckled, Nightwing-like, almost as if he wanted to push Jason over the edge. How easy it was to fall back into the old roles...

"I know enough to see behind this sanctimonious, embarrassing act you're trying to hold up here." Jason pulled Dick closer to his face, only inches away now. "Isn't this quarrel with him the perfect excuse to stall for time with your precious little brothers?"

It had truly been nothing but a stab in the dark, but the way Richard flinched and then narrowed his eyes told him that he had hit the bullseye. A sly smile spread over his face and he pushed his brother back into the pillows.

"Isn't that right?" Jason was in full swing now, "you're not telling them because you can't stand to disappoint them. You don't want them to see their oh-so-glorious big brother as human and weak as everybody else. You know what, Goldie? You're not all that."

"Says the boy who still dyes his hair to look like me."

And that just went one step too far. It made Jason topple right over the edge into all those memories and beliefs he thought he had gotten rid of by now. He spat the next sentence out without realizing what he said, a defense- mechanism he had needed during his street life and never quite managed to drop.

"Well, then go on and lie to them, if you are so keen on dying alone."

It was a low blow, one Jason was sorry for the minute it had slipped past his lips. If he hurt Richard with it, it didn't show. Instead, his brother turned to rearrange his blankets and pillows, shot him a dirty look, and gave him a taste of his own medicine: "That's the first time today you actually know what you're talking about."

There were only two ways of dealing with something like that, and since Jason didn't want to give Oracle the satisfaction, he just pivoted on his heels and left.

* * *

Later that night, in full Nightwing gear and on the top of Blüdhaven's highest building, Jason Todd felt miserable.

He had stopped the drug dealers for tonight already a few hours ago, had beaten up pretty much every other petty criminal he could find even though it wasn't part of their deal and was incredibly boring, but Jason just didn't want to return to Dick's apartment. He needed to apologize when he returned; he had gone too far this time. Richard too, no question about that, but he actually could call his illness, his treatment _and_ his blood sugar level to his defense, while Jason could only blame his short temper.

What bothered him even more than their battle was how easily Dick had seemed to push his buttons. He had started the argument with absolute certainty about the truth and logic of his concern, and with only a few sentences Dick had melted it all away and pushed him over the edge. Dick had stirred feelings he had believed to have been buried or overcome years ago, and turned the whole thing into an embarrassing quarrel between two kids who were trying to find out who was Daddy's favourite.

Even more disconcerting, though, was the question of why he had never done it before. Sure, he and Nightwing had always argued, insulted and pushed each other, but never like this. Never before had Richard shot so low as to use his death experience to shut him up...

Jason was pulled out of his musings when a dark, sinister shadow suddenly loomed over him. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see him landing without making even the slightest noise, draw himself up to his full, very impressive height, and finally turn around towards him.

His night had just taken a turn for the worse, showing him completely new dimensions of the term 'fucked-up'.

"Nightwing," a cold voice called him. This would be good.

Jason turned around to face Batman, only partially prepared for all the feelings that rose in his chest as soon as he set eyes on his former mentor. Batman's expression was like a statue's, cold and void of all emotions. While everyone else would believe it to be the usual Batman-face, Jason knew the man well enough to recognize the different shades of Bruce's bad moods. This one promised a lot of trouble.

"What are you doing here?" Batman asked Jason, who had failed to explain himself right away. It might have been posed as a question, but it really was an order. Full status report, _now_.

Jason gestured towards the red bird in front of his suit. "Playing Nightwing, obviously."

Batman growled, and Jason realized with a start that this could be the biggest 'fuck you' he would ever be able to throw into Bruce's face. Everything he said or did now would be said and done under the shadow of the fact that Richard had asked _him_ for help, not Bruce.

"Why?" Batman became anxious, enraged.

"Because he asked me to." Jason enjoyed the few seconds in which Batman's face lost some of its sternness, during which he tried to puzzle out Jason's answer, find some missing piece, a clue or whatever would indicate a lie.

There was none, because what he had said was perfectly true. Jason had never before held so much power over Bruce as in this moment. And he loved it.

"What game are you playing, Jason? Why would you do this for him?"

It was actually an excellent question, one that Jason himself hadn't been able to answer properly so far, but he was more distracted by the way Bruce had pronounced the 'you', as if he was nothing more than some dirty, negligible rat in the gutters.

"He asked me to help him," he answered therefore, emphasizing each word. "He's sick, in case you've forgotten."

Batman reacted at once: muscles tensed, jaw clenched, fingers flexing over his utility belt. Jason shifted into a fighting stance smugly. It really was too easy sometimes...

"Don't push me..." Batman warned, pressing the words out.

"Oh, no offense," Jason said in fake surprise, "I just thought, judging from your absence during the last weeks, maybe you had more important things on your mind."

Batman's scowl only darkened. "Like what?"

Jason abandoned his fighting stance -this was just too good- and took a mocking position, one arm stemmed against his hip, the other hand tipping at his chin in false cluelessness. "Hmm, let me think for a minute.. what could be more important to you than your son... maybe Gotham?"

He had expected an attack, fast and violent, but nothing happened. Bruce stared at him wordlessly for a few second, then straightened his shoulders and turned around.

Jason stared at his back. What the fuck...? Had he just.. won against the Dark Knight? Batman was making his way towards the other side of the building, grappling hook already in hand, and Jason fought the urge to call him back and hit him with a brick repeatedly. He hadn't even asked about Dick, for God's sake!

"Are you sure that's all I should tell Dick about your visit?" he called at last, and it indeed made Batman stop. He turned ever so slightly.

"He doesn't want me there."

The voice wasn't Batman's, Jason noticed, startled. This was Bruce talking– finally. Maybe now he would be able to hammer some sense into his thick skull.

"He doesn't want _Batman_ there," Jason said carefully. He really didn't know how he could make it more obvious. Maybe a sign with flashing neon light bulbs...?

The black figure in front of him hadn't responded, but Jason thought he heard a sigh. Neither of them spoke or moved for a while.

"...How is he?" Bruce asked, at last.

Jason sneered, but was actually more than relieved. Maybe one of those two boneheads was ready to listen to him. "Why don't you see for yourself?" he asked therefore, "he's at the hospital tomorrow, 3 p.m."

He saw how Batman turned around and opened his mouth, but dove from the building before he could hear anything.

_Damn,_ it felt good to dismiss _him_ for once.

* * *

Jason had been too distracted by the new developments to notice that Richard was still lying on the living room couch as he peeled of his Nightwing mask.

"Jason? Everything alright?"

He wheeled around to face the source of the voice and realized that Dick was there, awake, and had probably waited for him to return. Their argument from earlier came back to his mind. He should apologize and had already taken a step towards his brother, when he found out that he was completely unable to bring the words past his lips. He wished that he had left the mask on for a while longer; hiding behind one always gave him more courage.

The words he was thinking about reached his ears suddenly, destroying the silence between them.

"I'm sorry," Dick said plainly, in a firm voice, and when Jason looked at him clearly surprised, he shrugged his shoulders and went on. "I had no right to say those things to you."

Why was it so easy for that bastard to say that? Jason had needed hours to only admit to _himself_ that he felt what he felt.

"Yeah... me neither," he said lamely, still trying to remember the words he had practiced before Bruce had shown up and toppled even the last bit of balance he had been able to hold onto. Bruce... should he tell Dick about him?

"You were right, you know?" Dick went on talking, pulling Jason away from his thoughts about their surrogate father. "About everything. My living conditions. About Tim and Damian... I worry about them."

"Why?" Jason asked quietly and sat down beside Dick, taking in a big, yellowish bruise on his brother's right forearm that surely hadn't been there the last time he'd seen him.

Dick misunderstood the question. "There will be nobody to help them cope with.. this." He made an uncertain gesture that implied the whole situation. Jason snatched the moving arm in midair and pulled it towards him, to examine it closely.

"No," he started. "I mean, why have you changed your mind? Did that by any chance coincide with _this_?" 'This'meant the very ugly, very nasty looking bruise. Dick was laughing nervously now. Busted.

"Oh, that's nothing. I just kinda.. tripped while you were gone."

Jason sighed. Tripped, sure. "So you gained new insights while conversing with the floor?"

"It was the tub. But, yeah, totally," Richard smiled and pulled his arm back, "the next recuperation phase begins Friday. I'll ask Bruce if I may visit them during that week."

Jason nodded in approval. "I'm sure he will be more than happy to bring his Golden Boy back home."

Richard didn't answer to that, and Jason worried if it had sounded too harsh. But then his brother sighed deeply, pulled his knees up and rested his head against the back of the couch.

"Jay?" he asked, more cautious than Jason felt comfortable with. "Can I ask you something? About Bruce?"

_Here it comes_. Jason nodded apprehensively, his discomfort plainly visible.

"This picture that you have about me and Bruce and our great relationship... where did you get that from?"

The question was not what Jason had expected, absolutely not. He stared at Dick confused and didn't know what to say. How he got the idea about their father/son bond? Wasn't that obvious?

…

… ...

No, it was not, it suddenly dawned on Jason. They never were close during his Robin days, rarely working together if anything. Dick had been busy at Titan's Tower, only visiting sporadically after Alfred insisted. Those visits had either been filled with arguments and screaming matches between Dick and Bruce, or with silent dinners during which no one dared to say anything. Jason had still been jealous, jealous as hell; but now that he thought of it, it had never been of their relationship, but of Dick in general, his abilities, how he was loved by everyone.

Then he died, and when he came back..

"Joker..." Jason said finally, voice hoarse and low, "if it had been you, he would have killed him." And that was true, great relationship or not. Jason just knew it, deep down.

Dick looked at him sadly. He had expected that answer. "Why do you think that? Because you believe that he loves me more than he loves you?"

Jason sneered. He didn't want to discuss this now, or ever. Where was the point in it, anyway? He looked away sternly, refusing to answer Dick's rhetorical questions.

His brother shook his head again, sadly. "It's not true, Jay. I wish I could make you see it."

* * *

_-the next day-_

Bruce stepped into the ambulant treatment unit during one of Jason and Dick's fundamental arguments about life and stuff. They didn't notice his entrance, a treatment Bruce Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises and most famous billionaire, was not used to.

"...and I'm telling you, it's the name of a cartoon character!"

"Are you even listening? The cartoon character was named_ after_ Dickens' character."

"I'm sure Dickens never wrote a book about a greedy goose."

"Of course he didn't! ...And it's a duck."

"How do you know?"

"Because it's called '_Duck_tales'!"

"Charles Dickens wrote a book called 'Ducktales'?"

Richard facepalmed with the hand that wasn't connected to the IV pole and fell back into his propped up pillow. "Oh God, _please_ tell me that the drugs are working and I'm imagining this conversation."

"And that would be better?" Jason crossed his arms, offended and only then, since he had to avert his face to fake-sulk convincingly, did he finally notice the man standing a few metres away.

"Hello Jason, Dick." Bruce said uncertainly, watching how the eyes of both of his sons widened. How much of the displayed surprise was true on Jason's face he didn't know, but there was no doubt about it on Dick's part, and that stung quite a bit.

He took a few precarious steps towards them but halted when he saw how his eldest lost several shades of colour, turned a sickly green and leaned forward. Jason reacted in an instant, fishing a bucket out of nowhere and shoving it professionally into Richard's arms just as he started to throw up.

Bruce stared at the scene and didn't know what to do or say. Mercifully, Jason leaned back in his chair and beckoned him over.

"Don't take it personally, that's how he greets everyone."

Bruce found his confidence after a few confused seconds and made his way over to the bed, to sit beside his far-too-pale son. Under Jason's curious gaze, he started to awkwardly pat Richard's back, but continued to stroke it reassuringly when the retching went on and the trembling worsened.

When the retching had finally stopped and Dick was left panting heavily, Bruce carefully slipped one arm under his son and pulled him up. Richard didn't resist and just slumped against the broad chest.

Afraid to ruin the situation, Jason reached out to take the swaying bucket away and motioned to Bruce to grab the glass of water within his reach. Jason, Bruce realized, would have to save his ass a few times in the near future.

He handed the water to Richard, trying to ignore how much his eldest's hands were shaking or how thin he had become under the fabric of his clothes, and tried to verbalize all that was going through his mind.

"Dick, listen... uh, I know... I wasn't exactly..."

"...stuff it," Dick interrupted between sips and just leaned back against him, eyes closed and breathing slowly. Bruce wrapped an arm around his shoulders protectively.

The ensuing silence was a comfortable one, until Jason decided to end it. He pulled out the crossword puzzle that had caused havoc earlier, and began to read.

"'Last head of state of the USSR', 9 letters."

"Gorbachev," Dick answered with a faint voice.

"Oh come on, you're doing this shit on purpose, Dick!" Jason argued in a beat. "That's a brand of vodka, _obviously_."

Bruce couldn't help but laugh, while Richard only groaned and hid his face in his hands.

_-tbc-_

* * *

_Men with low blood sugar totally behave as if they had PMS. During my paramedic days, we sometimes went so far as to offer them a tampon^^ (only one accepted)_

_This chapter is the longest so far. I had planned to post it as two seperate chaps, but I realized that I couldn't do the cut. And since we actually hit the 100-review- mark, think of it as reward ;) _

_And now, I'm very glad to finally announce: Next up: Tim and Damian!_


	8. Chapter 7

**LIFELINES**

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Richard observed his reflection in the glass case in his doctor's office. He couldn't remember the last time his hair had been this short – during his Gotham Academy days, probably. He missed the long strands of hair already, although he was sure that Alfred would approve of the shorter version.

His doctor was talking, eyes fixed on her computer screen, prattling on about his leukocyte level and lack of granulocytes and hell knows what else. Dick ran a hand through his new haircut. He didn't like it, he decided. But that wasn't important, since he wouldn't have to get used to it anyway. There was just no way his therapy would spare him any longer; it was a miracle that he had made it through two chemo phases with his hair still in place.

_Indestructible Gypsy hair,_ he had told his nurses jokingly, _if Alfred can't tame it, nothing can._ But during the last weeks of his treatment, even his Alfred- resistant mop of Gypsy hair had begun to thin out.

"Mister Grayson, are you even listening?" Doctor Flores, for once glancing up from her screen, asked annoyed.

"Sure," he answered politely, forcing himself to smile charmingly at her, "you just told me that the level of mutated leukocytes in my blood is too high, while my thrombocyte and erythrocyte levels seem to have decreased even further. I take it, therefore, that you were just about to tell me that the chemo is not working."

Dr. Flores stared at him surprised, then nodded and handed him a pile of sheets, continuing with her medical termini and apocalyptic messages he didn't want to hear. He'd much rather think about his hair, although that wasn't a particularly joyful topic anymore, either. He had only cut it shorter for his family's sake: Alfred hadn't seen him in more than a month and Tim and Damian, completely unaware of what was going on, hadn't seen him even longer. Showing up in all his bald glory would shock them more than they deserved, but at the same time he didn't want them to have to watch him pick up the shed hair from his pillow every morning.

His thoughts wandered to the next week which he would spend in Gotham. His bag was already packed and tucked away in Jason's car, the owner right now waiting for him to end this unnecessarily long doctor's appointment that told him nothing he hadn't already guessed himself.

"So basically," he therefore interrupted Dr. Flores after reading the heading of the first sheet in his hands, "you're telling me that we should better hope to find a bone marrow donor."

"Yes," she answered, slightly indignant. "Please fill out the documents as soon as possible and return them to us. It's too early to completely rule out a successful chemotherapy, though. Two phases without achieving a remission is critical, but we haven't reached the end of our rope yet."

Dick nodded mechanically. How he hated those prefabricated phrases.

"Since finding a suitable donor will take time, and a successful chemotherapy is still possible, we will just force you into remission with the next treatment block."

Richard flinched hard at that. "You mean..."

"A more extreme dosage, yes. We will extend your recuperation phase to ten days, so you'll be fully rested. Depending on how the treatment will affect you, we will have to consider in-patient stay."

"Sure," he said flabbergasted; _absolutely not_, was what he thought.

The doc complimented him out of the door after that, always polite and smiling, and Dick found it hard to return the courtesies. His mind still tried to get a grip on the phrase _'a more extreme dosage'_, vainly trying to understand how anything could be more extreme than the stuff he had been given over the last few weeks. Dick wondered if it was normal to be more terrified of the treatment than of the illness, because he sure was.

Jason was lighting a new cigarette when he approached. The second he spotted him, the cigarette was dropped on the cement and crunched under Jason's boot. It made Richard realize for the first time that Jason hadn't smoked one single time in his presence since he had learned about the leukemia.

"What are you grinning at?" Jason asked, suspicious. "Good news from the doc?"

Richard just waved the paper in his brother's direction and headed towards the car, half-heartedly explaining bone marrow donations and national medical databases as they walked.

* * *

When they passed the road sign that announced Gotham City, Dick couldn't help but sigh.

"Come on, it won't be that bad," Jason tried to cheer him up after a quick glance to the side. "You're being overdramatic."

"Alfred will be happy that I got rid of my 'hippy-style', at last," he mumbled sullenly.

"Oh for Christ's sake, Dick!" Jason exclaimed, distracting Richard from the fact that they were pulling into the manor's driveway. "You spent the last two days sleeping like a log, and for the three hours you've been awake you've been moping about your _hair?!_"

"You're just jealous because your coloration doesn't 'reflect the sunlight in a natural, healthy way'." The horror that crept over his brother's face told him he knew exactly what was going on, but Dick still had to make sure. "I got that from the label on your hair dye product, in case you were wondering."

Jason cursed colourfully and slammed the brakes more abruptly than necessary. "...and suddenly I don't feel bad at all for dropping you off _here_."

Richard didn't move.

"You need to get out. Alfred is probably already waiting at the door."

Silence.

"The carrying-service is only included after chemo, you should know that by now."

Dick was busy looking at his hands and feeling miserable.

Jason sighed. "Just call if anything happens, okay? I can pick you up anytime."

"Jay," Dick turned towards him and asked, straight-faced. "do you think they will like my new haircut?"

Jason practically threw him out of the car, bag and curses following closely but vanishing under Dick's laughter.

And then he drove away with screeching tires and a gesture Alfred wouldn't approve of, and the whole situation wasn't funny anymore, but very, very scary.

He heard the door open behind him and Bruce appeared at his side, a mixture of worry and amusement evident on his face. Jason had been right, apparently; Alfred and Bruce had known he'd arrived the minute they touched ground at the property.

"Dick." Bruce nodded as a welcome and grabbed his son's bag. "You're alright?"

"No," Dick answered simply, sighed, and made his way to the door.

The next half hour went by just as Richard had expected it. Alfred pulled him into a short hug, commented on his hair and tried unsuccessfully to hide his worry. Bruce merely went over the organizational arrangements of his stay, and Dick refrained from pointing out that no, he didn't plan on staying longer than this week. Not yet, at least. He still had to face his brothers, and he really was only up to one drama a day.

Luckily, neither Damian nor Tim were there – Alfred had sent Tim to pick his little brother up from school only a few minutes before Jason had dropped Richard off.

When Tim and Damian finally arrived, the three men were sitting in the living room with the fireplace, drinking tea. The chimney fire was burning, probably for the first time in years, and Dick suspected that it had been lit for his sake. No complaints, though, since he actually was freezing – in spite of the rather mild October afternoon and three layers of clothes he had put on to hide how much weight he had lost.

Alfred was prattling on about England, when the front door slammed and Tim and Damian's voices filled the manor...with insults and curses. Dick ginned; some things never changed. He never thought that this one fact would make him feel better someday.

Tim burst through the door first, obviously annoyed and trying to get away from the Arabic insults that followed him. He was cursing under his breath, a vein visibly throbbing on his forehead, but all that was lost the second he saw Richard.

"Dick!" he exclaimed, his voice wavering a bit thanks to a voice break, and Dick made a mental note to tease him about that later. Right now, he just stood up and let Tim hug him fiercely, the younger one already complaining about 'the little pest'.

Tim pulled back, gave his brother a once-over and was just about to ask Dick if everything was alright, when 'the little pest' entered the room listlessly and distracted Richard.

"Damian, how are you?" he asked eagerly, but the ex-assassin only looked at him with an unreadable expression.

"What happened to you?" He asked. "You look as if you walked into an atomic bomb explosion."

Dick laughed. "Something similar," he motioned to Bruce and Alfred to leave the room. "Sit down, I need to talk to you two."

Damian made his way to the couch, clearly annoyed, while Bruce and Alfred left the room wordlessly but with an encouraging pat on Dick's shoulder. Tim noticed, and smelled the rat at once.

"What's going on?" he asked, but Dick only signaled him to sit down, which he reluctantly did.

"Damian, Tim, I need to tell you something..." Dick started awkwardly, wishing he was somewhere else. They looked at him with big eyes, a mixture of worry and puzzlement. "I should have told you sooner, definite-"

"Is this about the fake Nightwing?" Damian interrupted him rudely. Richard flinched – he had hoped that this specific part of the equation might stay hidden for a while longer. But of course Damian was only interested in what connected to his work, and even though he shouldn't have been surprised, it hurt. Tim, on the other hand, seemed to be completely oblivious to anything Nightwing-related.

Dick nodded, and only now did Damian show a little bit of interest in what he had to say. _He's only ten_, Dick tried to remind himself.

"Okay, no interruptions from now on." He waited for both of them to nod and then gave himself a mental shove. _Just get it out, Grayson._ "I was diagnosed with leukemia two months ago and am currently undergoing chemo-treatment."

He didn't dare release the breath he'd been holding in the silence that followed his statement. While Damian remained completely passive, only furrowing his brow slightly, Tim's eyes widened and he clasped a hand over his mouth.

"Leukemia?" he pressed out.

Dick nodded without knowing what to say.

"Two months ago?"

Again a nod, and a slight tensing up in anticipation of the hurricane of rage and grief that would come down on his head any second.

"So what about Nightwing?" Damian piped up, and this time, the sting really did make Dick wince. "I take it you hired someone? Harper again?"

"It's Jason..."

"_Jason Todd?!_" Tim all but screeched.

This confession also made Damian show emotions, though not the ones Dick had hoped to little brother huffed indignantly and crossed his arms.

"-tt-. Your choice in acquaintances is appalling as ever, Grayson."

Dick gave him a small smile, more sad than anything else. "He's doing a fine job so far."

"Very well, Nightwing is your legacy." Damian rose to his feet. "Is there anything else you feel you need to share with us?"

"Uh...no, that's it..." Richard answered, unsure, and watched how Damian marched past him and left the room, shutting the door behind him without so much as a 'Get well soon'. _Ouch._

"Now, that was anti-climatic," he said lightheartedly as he turned back to Tim, who had followed the whole conversation between his brothers with wide, unbelieving eyes. "Damian really sho –"

"Don't change the subject!" Tim suddenly shouted at him and sprang to his feet, anger and something indefinable displayed on his face.

_Here we go..._ Dick thought and braced himself.

"You have leukemia and you tell me _two months_ later?" Tim was pacing in front of the couch Dick was seated on, gesturing wildly and breathing hard. "What is _wrong_ with you?!"

"Timmy, listen," Dick tried to sooth him. "The last few weeks were really exhausting, and I never mana–"

"But you had time to contact _Jason!_"

Tim was screaming now. His hands were balled to fists and his voice was shaking – not because he was close to tears, Dick realized, but because he was trying to restrain his anger.

And he was doing a poor job. An emerging pounding against his temples told Dick that the next minutes of this 'conversation' wouldn't be pleasant.

"I didn't_ tell_ Jason, he –"

"You gave him your Nightwing costume! Could you possibly have made a worse choice?! Oh wait, yes!" Tim was screaming himself into a fit now, and suddenly it began to dawn on Dick which direction his brother was taking to let his frustration out. "I bet you wanted Damian first, but then again, you already made him _Robin_!"

Dick groaned inwardly. How he hated to be right. He understood the notion, he really did. Faced with two shocking truths, Tim chose to pay more attention to the lesser one, since it was easier to deal with. Richard himself would have loved to have the opportunity to just blame or scream at somebody, instead of having to come to terms with the real problems.

So, he just watched Tim scream and flail his arms around, while his mind wandered to Bruce and Alfred. They were listening behind the doors, he was sure of it. Or maybe Bruce even had some surveillance camera installed in their living room? Tim was becoming louder and louder with each (and now quite insulting) word he spat at him; he wondered when Bruce and Alfred would decide to come to his aid.

"Tim, calm down," he tried after a while when his headache became stronger. "Let me explain."

Tim was practically grinding his teeth. "Ohhh, you wanna explain?" he pressed out mockingly, "wouldn't you rather wait for two months and spend the time with Jason?"

"You want me to favour you and not Jason, is that what this is about?" Dick asked tiredly. This was just too stupid, and his time had become too precious for something like unfounded jealousy. "Then maybe you should stop acting like him."

It pushed Tim over the edge, just like he wanted it to. "WHAT?" he roared, and Dick's headache turned up a notch.

He stood up now and marched up to Tim, their faces only inches apart. "All I see right now is a teenager screaming about the ridiculous notion of being replaced, while in truth he just can't deal with a more serious problem. Does that sound familiar?"

Tim's arms had dropped at the end of the sentence, his expression changing from angry to utterly shocked. Richard grabbed the teen's shoulders and forced him to look into his eyes.

"I'm very sorry that I failed to tell you sooner, but right now I have a headache made in hell and I should get as much sleep as possible in order to survive the next treatment phase. So if you want to stay mad at me I understand, but I really can't listen to this any longer."

Richard raised an eyebrow to indicate that it was Tim's turn to answer, but his little borther's eyes had already screwed up and a sob escaped his lips.

Wordlessly, Dick wrapped his arms around Tim and drew him close – fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt almost instantly.

"I'm so.. sorry, I did-..I," Dick interrupted the tearful apology with a simple _'shhh_', and somehow managed to steer them back to the couch, into a seated position that allowed the slight dizziness in his head to retreat.

Tim was sobbing into his shoulder in the most heart-wrenching way now, and Dick couldn't help but feel sorry for the boy. He had lost so much in so few years, it really wasn't fair.

"It's okay, Timmy," he whispered into Tim's hair and patted his back reassuringly, but a small voice in the back of his head piped up and claimed that it should be the other way around, that it was high time for someone to comfort _him._

The boy in his arms was still crying, but he had calmed down enough to allow for straight thinking again. "So _that's_ why you never appeared during that drug bust..." he sniffled, and though Dick had to roll his eyes at his family's pigheadedness, he was more than relieved. This was more the Timothy he knew, and truth be told, the Timothy he needed. Someone among his 'more than appalling choice of acquaintances' needed to stay level-headed, to analyze and think things through.

"I'm really sorry that I hadn't told you all sooner," Dick answered instead, using the moment Tim needed to collect himself to finally get everything out. "I didn't believe it myself at first, and then Bruce was in Hong Kong, and I couldn't say it over the phone.."

His voice trailed off as he thought back. It had been only a few weeks, but they seemed like a lifetime to him now. So much had changed...

Tim distracted him from his musing when he pulled out of Dick's grasp, sniffled, and used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the tears, smiling slightly. Richard loved the fact at least someone in his family was able to show feelings without being embarrassed about it. He realized how badly he had counted on Tim's empathy, and wondered if he had stalled for time so long because he had been afraid to lose this support.

"Bruce and Alfred know?"

"Yes, they do." Dick had to smile bitterly as he remembered. "I told Bruce the day after I blew up his drug deal. We had a pretty bad fight, and then didn't talk with each other for about a month."

Tim stared at him incredulously, but Dick wasn't finished yet.

"And then there was the insurance company that wouldn't pay for the chemo, the annuity insurance that didn't know why there weren't any more paychecks arriving, and so on and so on."

"Why wouldn't the insurance company pay for the treatment, isn't that what they're there for?"

"Aww, I forget how naïve you can be." Dick patted Tim's arm. "Apparently, the oncology statistics say that I'm too young to have cancer."

"..."

Tim's eyes watered instantly, and he leaned forward against Dick's chest again.

* * *

Richard was tired.

He had spend hours talking with Tim, catching up on all the stuff that had gone on in the kid's life during the past two months, and regularly comforting him when he was again overcome by emotions. The display of feeling was touching to see, no question about it, but it had worn him out, and after a while he had excused himself and made his way to his old room.

Embarrassingly, he was panting after he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Never before had he noticed how goddamn long that evil staircase was. But then again, he had never been in a worse physical state than now.

Depressing shit.

The mood he was in when he opened the door to his bedroom was pretty low, and seeing Damian sitting on his bed didn't lift it much. The boy's earlier rejection came to his mind again and made his nasty headache return.

"Damian," he greeted without much enthusiasm. God, he was tired.

"Grayson." Damian nodded and motioned for him to sit down. Richard complied willingly and couldn't help but release a sigh when the weight was lifted from his feet.

"What can I do for you, Lil' D?" He asked, much more relaxed and willing to listen now that he was sitting and his pillows were so close.

Damian shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, so similar to Bruce that Dick had problems suppressing a grin. Whatever was going on, it was an emotional topic for Damian. He was examining his hands the same way Bruce did when he was trying to find the right words to express how he felt.

He waited therefore, because he knew how hard this was for Damian.

"Grayson, I am the offspring of a very pedigreed family," the boy said finally. "My blood is superior thanks to the greatness of my ancestors, and our supremacy allows us to ignore most issues of … people of lower rank."

Dick swallowed the comment about purity of breed and incest that was on the tip of his tongue and nodded with a (fake) serious expression. Damian was again acting like a high society prick, but at least he had been careful when he mentioned the people of 'lower rank'. He had heard several more degrading terms when it came to his family's background.

"Such issues include illness and other forms of bodily defects, thanks to my grandfather's... proficiencies." Damian was glancing at Richard carefully, and Dick nodded for him to go on.

"I need to inform you therefore that I am not well acquainted with the protocol concerning the handling of serious illnesses such as cancer." Richard opened his mouth to intervene, but Damian went on hastily. "So when you told us about your condition, I thought Drake might be the better choice for handling the situation. But from what I've gathered," Damian was glancing at the tear stains on Dick's shirt, "he failed. Of course."

"He didn't fail, Damian. Give him a bre –"

"I consulted Pennyworth as to the appropriate behaviour," Damian blurted out and _that_ made Dick shut up pretty fast. A slight blush had crept over Damian's face when he turned towards his brother and shifted closer. "Since it is my duty to represent the family, I will make up for Drake's failure."

And with that, he climbed on Richard's lap and wrapped his arms around him.

Dick was stunned. So stunned that he didn't react at once, instead needing a few seconds to process that this was indeed _Damian_ who was, yes_,_ hugging him.

He drew him closer soon after, and buried his face into his little brother's hair. "It'll be okay," Damian said in a reassuring voice, "you'll get through this."

"Thank you," Richard murmured, "this means a lot."

"It's protocol," Damian said again for emphasis and Dick chuckled.

Then he pulled away and smiled at his little brother, who was obviously clueless about what to do now. Dick ruffled his hair, something Damian hated, and brought them back to their usual roles.

"Unhand me, Grayson!" he growled and jumped down from Dick's lap to dash towards the door.

"Damian," Dick called after him, and the ex-assassin turned around before he could disappear into the vast manor.

"For the next time: you don't need a 10-minute-explanation just to hug me."

"... -tt-."

He was gone after that, but Dick's smile stayed for a while.

Maybe he was right, and everything would turn out okay.

-tbc-

* * *

_Okay, so this is the first chapter I'm completely unsatisfied with. Somehow everything was way more epic in my head :/. But things need to be done and said, and now the whole family knows. Finally! I truly thought I would get to Damian and Tim sooner, but Jason needed a lot more attention than I had expected. Middle child, you know ;)_

_What will follow now is one chapter to let Dickiebird catch his breath, and then things will turn more serious. Damn, I'm looking forward to that^^_  
_Also, please tell me if the whole medical termini thing works for you. I throw names like 'granulocytes', 'myeloid' or 'erythropoietin' at you randomly, and it only occured to me now that they might need some explanation. You can always ask in a review or PM, or I could attach some explanations to the end of the chapters.. whatever works for you (and keep in mind, we are only at the beginning. There will be much more medical termini...) Let me know!_

_Love, Pekuxumi_

* * *

**Medical termini (edit 21th August)**

**leukocytes: **are the white blood cells. They are an integral part of the immune system and are produced in the bone marrow. There are different kinds of leukoytes that have different functions, like the **granulocytes** or lymphocytes, but they all should defend the body from infectual diseases.

**erythrocytes:** are the red blood cells. They carry oxygen through the body with the blood flow, but they only manage to do so if they are rich in hemoglobin, or 'iron', which binds the oxygen molecules to the erythrocytes. They are also responsible for the red colour of blood (actually, that's the billirubin, but let's not go there...). The condition of a low count of erythrocytes is 'anemia', which basically means that there is not enough oxygen available and/because red blood cells die or don't function properly. Symptoms are fatigue, dizziness or even fainting, paleness and coldness, and much more.

**thrombocytes**: are the third component of blood cells, the **platelets.** Basically, they are responsible for stopping a bleeding, for making the blood 'clot'. If their count is too low, there will be hemorraghing - the bleeding won't stop or stops too slow; if their count is too high, there is the danger of 'thrombosis', a blood clot that clogs the blood vessel and stops proper blood flow, or even gets flushed into the heart or lung, cutting them off of blood eventually.

**bone marrow: **a flexible tissue found in the interior of bones. It produces the components of blood (**leukocytes, erythrocytes and thrombocytes)**, since it produces the hemapoietic stem cells, which then develops into the three blood cell groups and all their forms. In leukemic patients, this process does not work properly, and their blood consists of mutated or undeveloped blood cells. To **donate bone marrow** basically means to donate the hemapoietic stem cells.


	9. Chapter 8

_medical termini will be explained at the end of the chapter._

LIFELINES

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next day, Dick woke up bright and... well, certainly not early. A glance at his old alarm clock told him that it was past noon already. Awesome. So far, no injury or even summer break had prevented Alfred from making sure he was awake for breakfast – good to know that cancer counted as an argument. Maybe he could also cheat the gallows when it came to Alfred's highly praised but utterly disgusting_ escargots au gratin_.

Content, Dick rolled over in his bed and buried his head once more into the pillows. Turning his mind away from appalling things like snails (or food in general, as his stomach reminded him), he began to think about Tim and Damian. They were yet missing in his master plan, if only for the reason that he considered them the easiest part.

He was doing fine with Jason and Bruce, and Tim would accept his big brother as soon as his mentor would. Dick made a mental note to call Barbara later on, maybe even meet up with her, somewhere where no one could snoop around and listen to their conversation. Jason wasn't around, thankfully, but even scarier than the wrath of a Jason Todd who had discovered that he was chasing a non-existent group of drug dealers, was the wrath of a Jason Todd who had learned that he was chasing a non-existent group of drug dealers from 'the Replacement'.

Richard couldn't help but grin. It had been so easy, everything had fallen into place after Jason himself had made the initial step. Asking him to play Nightwing for one night hadn't been an act – Dick had been positively desperate, and Jason's consent had been a gift sent from heaven.

After he knew that Jason truly did care for him and was willing to adopt his Nightwing persona, the ideas had literally lit up in his mind like a Christmas tree. Two conditions had to be met to make Jason cooperate: the involvement of drugs, and the non-involvement of Bruce or Batman. Of course, Dick knew that Jason bathed in the fact that 'Daddy's Golden Boy' was relying on him, and that he would rub it into Bruce's face at some point, but Dick also knew that he wouldn't let him down. Jason kept his promises.

Damian had presented him with a large group of drug dealers, and Blüdhaven offered a vast selection of additional criminals that Dick could easily link to Damian's group. When it came to Jason, the crime considered most abominable was drug dealing to kids – and there were many criminals who did that. All Dick had to do was to hack the server of the Blüdhaven Police Department, reconfigure some of the criminal records, link them up to Damian's original group, and the magic worked its own. Richard didn't have much of a guilty conscience after inventing a bygone crime for two or more 'innocent' criminals; chances were high that they had worked together anyway.

The tricky part was to invent the puppet-master behind the loosely associated drug gang, the one Jason would be trying to find to make it stop. Beating up the criminals was the fun part of the job, but it had only brought a responsible vigilante so far. It was the big boss they needed to catch, the big boss who didn't exist in this case. Dick had started to make up and rewrite some of the police reports and newspaper articles that were connected to the criminals he had linked to the original group. He changed some of the transcribed protocols to add one or two mysterious, anonymous figures, but he had to be careful not to lead the whole police department into a dead end.

After every carefully prepared mission he presented to Jason on chemo nights, he had to rewrite and reconsider the reports and files accordingly – without having Jason notice anything, preferably.

It was fun, it was exciting, it was alarming how easily it was done, but most of all it was exhausting, and Dick was about to reach his limits. The stronger his treatment became, the harder it was for him to stay focused for long periods of time, or to grasp the whole scope of what he was about to do.

He needed Barbara's help, especially now that he planned to connect the thing to Gotham. The goal of the plan was, after all, to make Bruce and Jason realize that they had been wrong about each other. If Bruce saw that Jason was able to stick to the no-killing-rule if he had a good reason to, he would agree to work with him. On a personal level, they would be forced to talk to each other as soon as Dick's condition worsened. The fact that they had sat beside each other during his last chemo administration without even insulting each other proved that they were willing and able to set their differences aside for Dick's well-being.

Richard didn't give himself away to illusions – Jason and Bruce would never built up a decent father/son relationship, too much had happened for that. But they could be allies, maybe even friends. They could cover each other's back, and Dick wished for nothing more than knowing they were safe when he wasn't around anymore.

So basically, he mused as he shoved his blankets away and reached for his medicine on the bedside table, he needed to get them hooked up on the same case. In Gotham. But he had been out of town for too long to be familiar with Gotham's criminals anymore, and he couldn't deny the fact that he probably wouldn't be able to pull the whole thing through on his own any longer.

He really needed Barbara. He could do the emotional stuff, but he needed help with the organization.

Dick swallowed down the pills and glanced warily at the shed hair on his pillow. During his recuperation phase, the shed wasn't as dramatic as during chemo, but it was there. He shuddered and hurried to turn his mind away from thinking about his own predicament; deep down he knew that he should start to face his fate, but distracting himself with his ever problematic family was just much easier.

Ah, well. No use in moping around.

He headed for the shower, and the hot stream of water felt better than ever. It felt like ages since he had been this rested; no nausea, no dizziness.

Feeling good had become a rare thing in Dick's world; therefore he chose to ignore the fact that he had to sit down in the tub after ten minutes of showering or the way too large clot of hair he had to pull out of the drain afterwards.

He descended the evil staircase from hell half an hour later, hair still damp, and walked right into lunch time. Bruce and Damian were sitting at the dinner table while Alfred walked in, balancing a few plates on his arms and defying gravity.

"Master Richard!" Alfred exclaimed surprised when Dick approached the table, "We were just wondering if we should wake you up."

"How are you?" Bruce greeted him smiling.

He ruffled Damian's hair when he passed him and sat down in his chair. "Where's Timmy?" he asked, ignoring Bruce's question and Damian's death threats on purpose.

"Master Timothy was at the library," Alfred answered and Dick rolled his eyes, muttering something about teacher's pets and weekends, "I just called him, he's on his way."

_Great,_ Richard groaned inwardly. He had hoped to avoid everything cancer related during lunch, but smalltalk with Bruce and Damian was simply not possible.

To make the situation worse, Alfred set a plate under his nose in just that second.

He gulped heavily and forced himself to look down at it. It looked delicious, but the moment the smell hit his nose, his stomach turned and Dick had to suppress the urge to run away as quickly as possible. He would have polished off the plate in merely a few minutes only a couple of weeks ago, but now he couldn't imagine anything more disgusting than eating something like this. Or anything else, for that matter.

Bruce and Alfred were watching him closely, he knew, and he didn't bother looking up when he pushed the plate away a few inches and excused himself in a faint voice. "Alf, thanks, but I'd rather not..."

"Master Richard," Alfred said appalled, "you haven't even eaten breakfast!"

"He's right, at least eat _something,_" Bruce backed his butler up.

"I'm really not hungry..." Dick sighed but pulled the plate back to him again. If he learned anything during his years at the manor, it was that there was no arguing about food.

Unenthusiastically he started to poke the meat with his fork, and then surmounted himself to swallow a piece of vegetable. His stomach protested immediately, but he managed to suck in a deep breath and force his stomach to calm down mentally.

Alfred beamed, heaped more gravy onto his plate, and announced happily that there was a huge chocolate cake in the kitchen, only waiting for him.

Richard choked on that information and almost spat his next bite on the table, but whatever curse he might have pressed out was drowned in the noise Tim made as he burst through the front door and marched up to them.

He dropped a pile of books onto the table despite Alfred's dismissive cough, and plopped down on the seat next to Bruce. Dick was glad; talking with Tim was easy, and surely he would be able to find a way to get rid of that ridiculously big steak on his plate when nobody was watching. Wasn't there a dog around here, somewhere?

"Are you planning to study medicine, now?" Bruce asked Tim, and Dick flinched in suspicious foreboding. He glanced at the thick books across from him warily, and indeed: every title had either the word 'cancer', 'leukemia', or 'chemotherapy' in it.

_Crap._

"Please tell me you borrowed those because you need them for school," Richard sighed unhappily.

"No, I've been doing some research on leukemia. Which type do you have, Dick?"

"AML..." Richard answered unwillingly, and the full plate in front of him was suddenly unbelievingly interesting. "Shouldn't you do other stuff on your weekends?"

Tim only grinned brightly and grabbed one of the tomes, leafing through the pages and coming to a halt at a chapter titled _'Causes'_ in bold print.

Dick indulged in cutting his meat into tiny pieces and pondered if throwing up on the table would stop the conversation or only enhance it.

"Hey, here it says the chances of getting this form of leukemia are actually the lowest in your age group!"

Dick decided to definitely settle for 'throwing up on the books or Tim', but Bruce -_of course!_- motioned Tim to go on reading. Neither of them even noticed the death glare Richard sent them.

"'_Causes are usually preexisting blood conditions... exposure to radiation or occupational exposure to chemicals'._. and then there's the usual risk factors." Tim skimmed through them. "Smoking, poor nutrition, neglection of bodily fitness.. none of these apply to you, Dick!"

"Well, I'm special," he answered, eyes fixed on the piece of meat on his fork, willing it to disappear. "How is Connor?"

Tim didn't rise to the bait, of course. To make things worse, Bruce had grabbed one of the books and started to read the table of contents. Desperately trying to change the subject, Dick turned to Damian. He winced – his little brother was looking at him with a mixture of annoyance and dismissal, and Dick realized just then that Damian hadn't said one word yet.

"What's up with you, Lil' D?" he asked worriedly, but Bruce interrupted whatever Damian might have said. "Here's something about hematopoietic stem cell transplantation."

_Aww, crap crap crap! _Dick shoved a full fork into his mouth, suppressing the urge to spit it all out and basically tried to look as if he couldn't answer anything.

Bruce hadn't even looked up. "'Bone marrow transplantation' isn't the right terminology, actually. They only seem to take the stem cells that are supposed to transform into all sorts of blood cells, and hope they will work in the host... but they have to match the DNA of the host, obviously."

"What does that mean?" Alfred inquired, looking at Dick's slowly emptying plate with indignation.

"It means that the best chance of finding a matching donor is a sibling or family member. Same ancestry, ethnicity, etc.," Bruce said and, for the first time since he had taken up the book, looked at Richard. Just like everyone else.

Dick only shrugged. Not much to say to that, right?

"But the USA has the highest rate of registered bone marrow donors." Tim tried to lighten the situation, which had become quite dense after Bruce's last statement. "That's good news!"

Dick swallowed. "How so?" he asked automatically and facepalmed inwardly. _You stupid…!_

"Well, chances to find a donor are better in the States than anywhere else.." Tim was confused.

"But I'm not American."

Damian chose the moment of ensuing silence to speak up for the first time. "Maybe this will finally teach you that family _is_ defined by blood."

"Damian!" Bruce and Tim hissed simultaneously.

The Boy Wonder slammed his fork on the table and got up from the table, heading out of the room without another word.

They stared after him surprised, Dick trying to swallow past the lump in his throat that had formed thanks to his brother's words. He had expected difficult behaviour, but this was just a bit too close to open rejection to be ignored so easily.

Tim decided to end the awkward silence and play a game of 20 Questions. "Do you know which anthracycline you're getting? Daunorubicin or idarubicin?"

"Daunorubicin and Cytoxan..." he answered pensively, still trying to figure out how to react to Damian.

"And have you been in consolidation yet? Hey, have you considered cryopreservation of your sperm?"

"No, I haven't reached remission yet, Tim. And I don_– what?!_"

"Ah well, you know." Obviously Tim had only now realized what he had been saying and blushed strongly. "One of the possible side-effects of the chemo is infertility, and I just thought.."

"Maybe you should leave us alone for a minute, Tim," Bruce interrupted, and Tim complied willingly, collecting his books and disappearing with an apologetic smile.

Dick buried his face in his hands after Tim closed the door. "I can't even decide which one is more strenuous."

"Well, you'll have to excuse Tim. You haven't exactly given him the chance to face up to your situation yet." There wasn't anything Richard could object to that, so he didn't. "And I don't think Damian has dealt with anything similar so far."

"None of us have," Dick murmured disheartenedly and started to poke the cold meat on his plate. "I'll talk to him later."

"Maybe you should let Tim handle this..." Bruce argued, and Dick stared up at him as if Bruce had grown a second head. "Damian doesn't know how to deal with you; maybe Tim can get through to him. They're in the same situation, you know?"

Bruce was right, Dick realized with a start. They were both afraid to lose their brother. Damian's dismissive behaviour so far was based on denial about their equality. Damian refused to accept Tim as a son of his father, he refused to accept him as Robin or equal crime fighter, but now, they both had to face the loss of their not-really-but-somehow brother.

This was just the opening he had been looking for.

"Don't tell Alfred," Bruce said suddenly and pulled Dick out of his musing. The older man had reached over the table and grabbed Richard's plate, starting to eat the leftovers.

Richard grinned, relieved. "He'll know anyway, he always does."

"You always neglected food when you were distressed," Bruce mused, a bit too nostalgic. "Alfred used to complain about your eating habits all the time."

"Hey, I'm an acrobat. I'm supposed to be light."

Bruce smiled sadly, an expression that threw Dick off track completely. He wasn't going to be sentimental, right? Dick didn't think he could take that right now.

"I wanted to talk to you..." Bruce started awkwardly, "about Jason."

Richard tensed up immediately, ready to defend his brother if necessary. "What about him?"

"I think he's too unpredictable to be around you when you're … after treatment."

The temperature in the room dropped in an instant. Dick felt the bile rise in his throat and his fists clench. "Jason has been nothing but awesome during these past weeks. I think he deserves a bit of credit."

Bruce noticed the turn the conversation had made. "I'm just worried."

"Then worry about my blood count, not about Jason!"

Bruce raised his hands slowly, indicating honorable intentions. Dick could almost hear the cog wheels turn in his head.

"Jason has helped me a lot," he said clarifying, intending to end this argument once and for all. "And he hasn't killed anyone since he started with Nightwing. Shouldn't _that_ count for you, at least?"

Bruce sighed. "I just don't know how to deal with him, Dick."

"So you chose not to deal with him _at all._ What do you want me to do, Bruce? Do the same?"

The expression Bruce gave him told him that yes, he'd like that very much. Rage bubbled up in Dick and his old temper flared up again.

"Well guess what, Bruce!" he fired angrily, standing up and leaning over the table to emphasize his determination on the topic. "I'm pretty close to dying here, and I think it's up to me to decide with whom I want to spend my time!"

Bruce paled visibly, the blow had been a low one. "You're not dying," he pressed out.

"_Not_ the point here."

"It's exactly the point."

"Listen." Richard inhaled deeply. "It means a lot to me that Jason is keeping me company during and after chemo. It would mean a lot if you would, too. Jay proved that he cares, and he proved to you that he can stick to your rules. So basically it's your turn, now. This is your chance to show that you care, and if you do, you need to give him _something._"

He turned away when Bruce failed to answer. "_That's_ how you should deal with him."

Tim stood behind the door when he opened it, face white. He had clearly listened to their conversation.

"The same applies to you, in case you were wondering." He was stomping away when Bruce raised his voice again.

"I'll try," he called after him, before he was able to close the door, and Dick turned around halfway, not able to suppress a reconciling smile.

He could make this work out.

###### ######### ####

_a few days later_

Richard awoke with a start to the sound of a door slamming, and looked around disoriented. It took him a moment to recognize Wayne manor's living room; he must have fallen asleep on the couch again. Tim had insisted on watching a movie before going on patrol, and Dick had lasted maybe 20 minutes before nodding off.

Someone had draped a blanket over him, he realized as he sat up – probably Alfred. The old butler had become something like his personal guard during his stay at the manor. He reminded Dick about his pills (unnecessary), took his temperature regularly (unnecessary) and reprimanded Tim, Damian and even Bruce when they were obnoxiously loud after patrol and kept him awake from his much-needed rest (very necessary).

Dick loved his family unconditionally, but, _damn,_ they were a loud bunch. Sure, his sleeping schedule was ridiculous -he spent more time sleeping than awake- but he did wish for a tiny bit more lenity. Listening to Tim and Damian argue had become such a predictable experience that he sometimes uttered their next words before they did. And Bruce was cursing damn loud too, especially after a patrol gone wrong or while trying to knot his tie without choking himself.

So when he jerked awake this night, he expected Damian or Tim stomping through the room, not Alfred hurrying down the stairs.

"Dick, you're already awake. Thank God." Alfred was panting, and Dick was worried at once.

"Alf, what's going on?" Alfred didn't answer but grabbed his surrogate grandson at the elbow and helped him up. "Did something happen? Is someone hurt?"

"Come on, fast."

Not even a minute later Dick was sitting in the Bentley, a blanket across his shoulders and very, very confused. Alfred slid into the front seat, hauled a bag -his bag!- over to the backseats and started up the engine.

"Alfred? What the hell is going on?!"

"Master Bruce will tell you in a second, lad." The old butler was fidgeting with his mobile phone while driving out of the gate. "Bruce?" he asked into the receiver and got the answer he desired, "yes... yes, I got him out... he demands to talk with you."

Dick snatched the phone away at once, absolutely pissed and ready to give Bruce a piece of his mind.

"Bruce? What the _fuck_ is going on!?"

"_We ran into Poison Ivy an hour ago, she managed to spray Tim and Damian with something." _Batman's cold and detached voice couldn't cover the sound of a heart wrenching cough in the background, and Dick's blood ran cold instantly.

"Are they okay? What was it? Did you call Leslie?"

"_Yes, we did. They'll be fine, it was just a fungi, an aspergillus. But you need to get out of the manor before we arrive."_

"What? Why?"

"_You're immunocompromised."_

Dick needed a few seconds to process the information given. "You're throwing me out because Ivy threw _mold_ at you?"

The voice at the other end of the line grew impatient, and the coughing in the background louder. They were discussing something, but Dick couldn't make out the words.

"_They can fight off the infection easily, but you can't. Leslie told us to get you out at once. Tim wants to talk to you." _Discussion over. Richard sighed frustrated – this just wasn't real, right?! Dammit, all he wanted to do was crawl into his bed and sleep, was that too much to ask for?

"_Dick?" _A weak voice croaked through the receiver. _"I'm so sorry..."_

His anger melted away immediately. "Timbo, are you okay?"

"_Yes, just coughing... Leslie kinda flipped when we told her. I think this could really be serious for you, dude."_

It was, sure. The leukemia had damaged his immune system; most of his white blood cells were mutated and not doing their job, while the chemotherapy had destroyed some of them but the rest of the working ones as well. Infections were a common danger for cancer patients, and especially when it came to leukemia, with its disastrous effect on the immune system. Tim had told him the number of patients that died of infection rather than the cancer itself – 40%?

"Sure thing, I guess I'll see you as soon as you're not contagious anymore..."

He disconnected the line and slumped in his seat pensively.

"Shit," he muttered. "So where are we going now?"

"Ms. Barbara has volunteered to host you tonight in the clock tower."

"Babs?" Dick shouted. He was still wearing his Pjs, for God's sake!

"I take it you had arranged a meeting today anyway." Alfred was clearly not up for a discussion. "Will Master Jason drive you back to Blüdhaven? I believe that Leslie has forbidden you to visit the manor for about 3 weeks."

Softly cursing, Dick rummaged for his mobile phone. Actually, this was just perfect. He had needed an excuse to go back to Blüdhaven after talking to Barbara anyways. Sure, he would have preferred something less dangerous, or something that didn't involve his brothers getting sick, but hey, he was in no position to choose.

"Too bad she got Timmy, too," Dick mumbled in fake annoyance, "There wouldn't be a problem if it was only Damian, since he doesn't talk to me anyway."

The annoyance was an act, the thing about Damian not. Since that exceptional hug on the night he arrived, Damian had been avoiding him carefully. They usually trained together when Dick came to visit or went on patrol, but his condition ruled those out, of course. Dick had found it almost impossible to start a conversation with his little brother all week, and at some point he had more or less given it up. He felt bad about it, but there was just no energy left in his system to deal with a disgruntled ex-assassin.

"He'll come around," Alfred soothed his worries, "But please drop your act with me."

Richard froze.

"I know you, Richard John Grayson," the butler chuckled warmly, "and I know when you're acting. You may fool your little brothers, and Master Bruce doesn't know how to deal with the situation in general, but you can't fool me. You're not sorry at all for having to leave the manor."

"Alf, listen. I..." Dick trailed off when he realized that he didn't know what to say. The old man could read him like a book, and smiled at him knowingly now.

"I understand that you don't want them to worry, but that you're looking forward to a more ...let's say, _quiet_ environment. But, Dick." And now he stopped the car in the middle of a deserted street and looked at him directly, "You won't be able to keep this act up much longer. You're a good performer, but I know that right now, you're tired and cold and sick of being woken up by patrols and villains."

Alfred placed a hand on Dick's thigh comfortingly. "Please don't lie to me. You'll need someone sooner or later. Promise you'll be honest with me."

Taken aback, Richard didn't find words to answer. Instead he squeezed the older man's hand in affirmation. It was enough for Alfred, who squeezed back and revved up the engine, continuing on their way.

Dick went back to dialing Jason's number.

"_Are you okay? Do you even know what time it is? Did anything happen? Why are you calling this late?!"_

Dick couldn't help but laugh. "Sorry, I can't tell if you're worried or mad, Jay."

"_Do you need me to pick you up?"_

"Yeah, tomorrow at Oracle's clock tower."

"_What happened?"_

"The manor was attacked by killer mold."

-tbc-

**medical explanations**

**(hemapoietic) stem cells transplantation/ bone marrow transplantation: **is the transplantation of multipotent hemapoietic stem cells from the bone marrow. The marrow produces undeveloped blood stem cells (hema = blood), which will develop into the varying blood cells (white, red, and platelets). In leukemic patients, something in this stage of development goes wrong; the marrow either stops the development at a stage that is too early for the cells to work properly, or mutates them into states that even prevent other cells from doing their work. The blood is 'flooded' by malfunctioning cells. For a hemapoietic stem cell transplantation, the marrow of the host and all cancerous cells need to be destroyed completely (→ chemotherapy and/or radiation), so the stem cells of the donor find their designated place and start working properly. A DNA match is necessary to avoid Host-Vs-Graft-Disease, which will be explained more thoroughly in later chapters ;P

**-immunocompromised: **Chemotherapy doesn't only destroy the mutated cancer cells of the patient, but also working ones. Therefore, many of the immune system's white blood cells (**leukocytes**) will be killed, resulting in a weaker immune defense. This is even worse for leukemia patients, since their number of working leukocytes is limited already. The patient is immunocompromised and not able to fight off infections properly anymore. This does not even only apply to serious ones, but also to the 'usual', everyday bacteria and viruses the immune system of a healthy person fights off without noticing it.

**-anthracylcine (daunorubicin, idarubicin, cytoxan): **are a class of drugs given during chemotherapy. There are many possible types and variations, their selection is depending on the patients general health and type of cancer. They are also the causes for the chemotherapy's heavy side effects.

**-Consolidation/remission:** The goal of every chemotherapy is to reach remission. This is the temporary state of having no cancer cells in the patient's body. The chemotherapy then changes into another phase, the Consolidation phase, that tries to maintain the remission as long as possible. Some cancer types can be defeated with persisting remission. Leukemic patients usually need a transplantation, since the cause of their illness is the malfunction of an organ that cannot be simply stopped or removed.

######

_okay! As you can see, I added a much needed explanation to the chapter. I will add it to the previous chapters, too. I won't explain general termini such as 'leukemia' or 'chemotherapy', though, and I will not repeat explanations over and over again. Words like 'leukocytes' or 'erythrocytes' will be present more often than not, and I may only advise you to check at a previous chapter. I hope that works for you!_

_So, this was a quiet chapter. I wanted to portray the family situation, as well as give Dickiebird a chance to catch his breath (as far as this is possible in a household where family members dress as giant bats to fight crime at night). Some basic things have been established, too, like Dick's 'master plan'. The shit will hit the fan (English's most awesome idiom!) next chapter, and I am soo excited about it that I might post it rather soonish :D  
_

_Love, Pekuxumi  
_


	10. Chapter 9

LIFELINES

CHAPTER NINE

The next chemo installment hit Dick with such force, no amount of recuperation days would have prepared him for it_._

Bruce showed up unexpectedly shortly before the treatment began. Neither he nor Jason were very excited to see each other, but they nodded in greeting and then ignored the other more or less politely.

Ivy's fungi was still an issue at the manor, but Leslie had pumped Bruce and Alfred with enough drugs to make them resistant. Tim and Damian still displayed traces of it in their blood, though, and as long as those were present and the manor not yet disinfected properly (Dick didn't envy Alfred_ that_ job), it remained forbidden ground for Richard.

When Dr. Flores entered the ATU, she handed Dick about a hundred documents to sign while she explained the new procedure, comprising of a prolonged administration and stronger dosage. But Bruce and Jason both underestimated her warnings, just like he did. When the biohazardous bottle started to drip liquid into the hypertonic saline solution that was connected to his vein, he was awaiting sickness and tiredness, nothing more.

And 'nothing more' happened for the first 20 minutes. He was talking with Bruce about some petty criminal, when the nausea hit like one of Bane's punches and the vomiting began. Jason, leafing through some magazine, passed him the bucket without so much as looking up.

But something was different this time, Dick noticed very soon, when the retching and gagging wouldn't stop and the pain in his intestines became more burning with each second. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jason and Bruce exchanging worried glances, but his vision soon grew blurry while his throat began to constrict painfully.

The heaving wouldn't stop, even when nothing was left in his stomach to force up anymore. He almost choked on his own gastric acid when the need to breathe became too much to bear, but his stomach kept churning and the retching and coughing continued. Semi-conscious, he wondered how fast his body was shutting down, but soon it became impossible to grasp a coherent thought.

At some point he heard Bruce and Jason's voices, but couldn't make out what they said – there was a wooshing in his ears that drowned out everything else. Then he felt the bed shift and strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him up, away from the bucket and into a more upright posture that allowed him to breathe.

He gulped down the cool air greedily, shaking, but the new position shifted his awareness of pain from his stomach to his head, to the splitting headache and the wooshing in his ears that just got louder and louder.

Dick's stomach tried desperately to empty itself, though there wasn't even gastric acid left to force up, and the gasping, panting and reflexive swallowing made his head swirl and his lungs burn. Bruce was trying to feel his pulse; he could feel fingers poking against his neck, but he couldn't manage to get a steady hold of his convulsing body.

Keeping his eyes open soon became too strenuous. His eyelids grew heavy, the prickling behind them stronger, but the adrenaline that pumped through his veins prevented him from losing himself to unconsciousness. Bruce was calling his name, he could see his lips moving when he managed to pry his eyes open, but the only sound he was able to hear besides the rushing was his own, rapid heartbeat.

There was a stabbing pain in his joints every time he moved – and since he had started to shake violently, he felt as if someone was picking his arms and legs apart with small pincers that dug deep into his flesh. In a moment of inattentiveness he slipped from Bruce's grasp and landed in a boneless heap on the pillows and blankets, not able to move his limbs to break his short fall.

He was feeling miserable, to make a long story short, but that was only the beginning. The chemo he had gotten so far had reduced him to a shivering, barely breathing creature in nothing more than half an hour. Richard had never felt anything like this before, and he had been through many versions of pain in his 23 years. He probably would have cried, if it weren't for Jay and Bruce.

Scratch that, he definitely would have cried, if the retching hadn't dehydrated and exhausted his body too much to produce tears or enable sobbing. For that reason, he found himself lying on his hospital bed, unable to move his aching limbs and barely strong enough to keep his eyes open.

His head was throbbing, his vision spinning. Slipping in and out of consciousness, he couldn't get a proper grip on his mind to force away the images and memories that always came with the feeling of imbalance. He kept seeing the tent of Haly's circus, its ceiling, and then he was _falling falling falling from the trapeze into the net down below._

There was a hand that caught him, held him firmly, but he needed a few attempts to recognize it as Bruce's. In a rare moment of lucidity, he found himself back in the hospital, one arm draped over his eyes to the make the spinning stop, the other one outstretched and his hand in Bruce's grasp. He wasn't looking at him, but at the figures behind them. They were blurry, but Dick could make out Jason's voice; he was yelling at someone, and one of the blurs was pointing frantically into his direction.

But then the pain roared up again and hit him as if he was running into a brick wall. His stomach tensed up once more, and a low, weak moan passed his lips. Bruce was calling him, hands on his shoulders, shaking him, increasing the spinning and the pain in his body. He wanted him to stop, but only managed to form the words _'Opre__ş__te-te'_, and he knew there was something wrong with that, but he couldn't fathom what.

There were hands that shifted him into a lateral recumbent position, probably to help him throw up, but he only curled into a ball, shaking like a leaf and gasping for air.

Then a sharp sting in his upper arm, and he found himself_ soaring through the air again, grabbing his father's outstretched hand. The heat of the spotlights following him while the audience clapped frantically..._

…

A hand on his forehead catapulted him back into a world of pain. He groaned in protest, but leaned into the cold touch at the same time _(that's not logical, cold touches shouldn't be comforting when one was shivering so badly)_. He opened his eyes a few millimetres, only to find the world tilting dangerously, colours _(red and blue and green and white and)_ and shapes losing their (_yellow and purple and)_ contours and blurring into each other, making his head spin even more. The hand appeared on his forehead again, forcing him to open his eyes _(when had he closed them again?) _in what seemed like hours... only then did he realize that it was not just his vision that was blurry, but that he was moving, somehow...

….

_/It was hot under the ceiling of the circus tent, the spotlights shining in his eyes while he was swinging to gain momentum. The audience was silent, not even a sound to distract him, not even a breath was drawn. His grip shifted, the trapeze swung back, and then he let go of the wooden handle, soaring through the air in one, two, three –/_

….

Cold.

Someone must have unbuttoned his shirt _(cold cold cold)_, for he could feel hands trailing over his skin _(burning)_, and then chilly, slimy touches at various spots on his chest. A beeping came up seconds later, regular but slow_ (one two three four..._

…

_/...four somersaults, until his feet touched solid ground again. Batman would be mad at him, and tell him again that the Quadruple was too obvious, but hell, he was so close to his parents when he did it, he couldn't resist the temptation. There he came, all black and scary, but Robin had never been afraid of him – /_

…

Movement again, someone lifting him up. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were too heavy. Concentrating on the sounds, he could hear an angry _(WorriedMadSadAfraid)_ voice, talking in a language he didn't understand and someone's labored breathing. Was that him? No. Someone _(Jason!)_ whose smell he knew, against whose chest he was pressed...

…

_/Zitka was there, waiting for her food. When he entered her stable she roared happily and threw him into the air, but caught him softly again. She lifted him above her head and dropped him on her back before she started to scarf the hay down. Mr Haly was calling him again, in need of someone to clean the lions' cages.../_

...

There was a steady, roaring noise, and the smell of smoke; something was burning. He groaned involuntary and tried to shift to the side, but something was holding him in place. It made him open his eyes, this time more successfully, and he blinked at the car ceiling a few times, confused. _Car ceiling?_

His head rolled into the other direction, not quite as controlled as he had wanted it to, and he could make out Jason's blurry face, which turned just in that second.

"J..ay?"

His brother cursed softly and pulled out of traffic. A fast movement with his hand, too fast for Dick to follow. But the smell lessened, so he had probably thrown his cigarette out the window.

Jason pulled his seat back, to come to the same level as Dick. It made him realize for the first time that he was indeed lying down, even though one shouldn't lie in a car, right?

He lifted his head, irritated, and found himself strapped into the passenger seat, which was tilted back as far as possible to enable an almost horizontal position. On his belly, attached to his belt, lay an infusion bag, still linked to his arm.

"Whazzat..?" he asked, the words coming out slurred.

"This," Jason said quietly as he grabbed said bag and turned the little cog that controlled the flow of the liquid, "is what will make you go back to sleep before you realize how lousy you're feeling."

Dick only blinked at him confused, trying to make sense out of this cryptic answer, when his head started to feel fuzzy again and blissful darkness engulfed him.

###### ####### #####

Awareness returned in steps.

First there was sound, then scent. He felt as if he was floating on air. Bodily awareness came with the arriving feeling in his limbs; fuzzy, but present. He knew this feeling – he had been drugged often enough. He concentrated on wiggling his toes, on moving his fingers against a soft fabric...he was lying in a bed.

Finally, he remembered how to open his eyes again. The muscles twitched, his lids fluttered. For a long moment he thought he hadn't accomplished it, but then he realized that it was dark around him, no lights illuminating the room he was lying in.

He turned his head carefully to examine his surroundings, while full control over his body arrived slowly but steadily. The fog in his mind cleared too, and he recognized his own bedroom in Blüdhaven. A soft breeze tickled his skin, and Dick turned his head to the opened window.

When his eyes had adapted to the darkness, he saw that he wasn't alone. Someone was sitting on the window ledge, knees drawn and head turned towards the outside world. He only recognized the figure when he saw a red, burning dot in the dark – Jason was smoking again.

It triggered a memory; not long ago he had seen him smoking, too... in a car?

"Jason?"

The figure moved towards the sound, the burning cigarette butt gone in a matter of seconds. He had definitely seen this before.

Dick tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but Jason appeared beside him in an instant and pushed him down again without much effort.

"Don't."

His brother's expression was serious as he reached over to switch the lamp on the nightstand on, the dim light made Dick squeeze his eyes shut.

A hand appeared on his forehead, triggering another déjà-vu, one he couldn't place right now. Opening his eyes again, he followed Jason's gaze to an empty infusion bag that had been provisionally nailed to the wall above his head.

"What's going on?" he asked, blinking confusedly.

Jay looked down at him pensively, brushed a hand against his forehead again and seemed to arrive at a conclusion, for he sighed slightly and then sat down in a chair beside the bed.

"What's the last thing you remember?" he asked finally.

Dick roamed through his memories – things were blurry, shapeless. "Uh, we were in a car?" he guessed unsurely, glancing at the other in hope of affirmation.

Jason nodded. "And before that?"

That was the tricky part. Richard furrowed his brow in effort, and winced when the memories returned to him. "Chemo..." He sighed and brought a hand up to run his fingers through his hair, but stopped short when he saw the indwelling venous cannula in his arm, which was still connected to the IV line.

Jason reached over and pulled the needle out, pressing a cloth against it carefully.

"You shut down completely during chemo. It was... scary." Jason looked away uncomfortably, but reached over and helped Dick into a sitting position, propping up the pillow at the head of the bed so he could lean against it.

"I think I remember..." Richard mused when he was seated comfortably again, but Jason shook his head.

"You were out of it most of the time, after they finally drugged you." His lips twitched slightly. "I've never seen Bruce like that. After you broke down, we tried to tell the nurses that something wasn't right, but they only said those were the usual chemo effects... Then you started to talk in your voodoo-language, and Bruce totally flipped. I don't know how many nurses he reduced to tears before a doctor finally showed up."

_Voodoo-language?_ Dick wondered, amused, but he sobered when he realized that Jason wasn't finished yet, but needed a moment to gather himself.

"I think she only came to calm down Bruce, but when she felt your pulse she started to give orders and injected you with some sedative and hell knows what else," Jason was shaking, Dick noticed, and he swallowed thickly before continuing. "They wheeled you away, and we were trailing behind... then they hooked you up to an EKG and gave you oxygen and all that stuff. It looked really serious. I've never seen Bruce so anxious."

Jason shook his head in wonder. "You kept slipping in and out of consciousness the whole time, and they said they couldn't give you stronger medication while you were still getting chemo."

"And they let me go home after all this?" Richard wondered and Jason laughed out loud after that.

"Hell, no!" he chuckled. "But when they announced that you needed to stay, Bruce went all Batman on them. He kept screaming that he'd never let you stay at such a lousy place, and then actually managed to make them comply. They gave us all the medical instruments and we strapped you into the car. The whole thing went so fast, I only realized we were out when I was carrying you to the car."

Dick was shocked. All of this had happened while he was unconscious? "How long was I out?" he asked, scared of the answer, glancing outside into the night.

"_Hours,_" Jason answered soberly. "The sedative only worked properly after the chemo was over. You developed a fever after a while."

"Wow..." Dick whispered, overwhelmed, and they stayed silent for a few minutes.

Then Jason got up and clapped his hands. "Okay, time for business. Get up!"

_Huh?_ Richard stared at his brother, incredulous.

"Don't look at me like that. I am definitely _not_ going to change your diapers."

Immediately Dick jerked up and lifted the blanket, dreading the worst.

Jason laughed. "No, nothing happened so far. But I don't plan on spoiling you that much; that's Alfred's job."

Recovering from the shock and muttering Romanian curses under his breath, Dick grabbed Jason's arm for support, and together they somehow managed to raise him to a standing position.

Dizziness was there at once, and his legs felt like jelly. He clasped an arm around Jason's shoulder instantly and leaned against him heavily, as his brother dragged him along. When they finally arrived at the bathroom, they both stood there and stared at the door clueless.

"Uh," Jason began awkwardly, "maybe I should..."

"No."

"Do you need me to..."

"No."

Daring to let go of his brother, Dick steadied himself for a moment before pushing the door open and staggering into the room. Jason stayed on his heels closely. "Are you sure you ca –"

"_Yes_."

He turned around shrugging and walked out, closing the door behind him.

"Call if you need me... and _don't_ lock the door!"

"Are you sure you don't want to change my diapers? You seem awfully interested." He may have sounded cocky, but Dick slumped down next to the toilet the moment Jason shut the door. Closing his eyes helped to slow the spinning of the world and ease the nausea that had ensued on their little walk.

When he opened the door a few minutes later, Jason was leaning against the opposite wall and sprang to his aid immediately. Dick was glad for the support. Those few minutes on his own feet had worn him out terribly; he could feel himself shaking already, and the tiredness was invading his mind again.

"Will this happen after every chemo now?" he asked in a small voice as they made their way back to his bed.

"Probably not," Jason said, sober, "they admitted that they messed up with the pain medication after Bruce almost choked the doc."

"Almost choked the doc?" Dick leaned back into the pillows thankfully. When he opened his eyes, Jason was hovering above him again, hand brushing over his brow. "What?"

"Your fever is rising again."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not," Jason huffed at him annoyed. "It's high time you face that."

Dick could feel his mind fogging again – sleep was luring him in. Jason hadn't noticed yet, and Dick decided that he needed to get a few things straight before he was out again for who knew how long.

"So where's Bruce? Why did he leave you alone with me?"

"Oh, he wanted to come along, he really did." Jason ran a hand through his hair while he recalled, "but after we strapped you in the car, someone called his emergency number. Cassandra got hurt, and it sounded pretty serious."

Dick pushed away the worry that pumped through his body immediately. He needed to hurry, his eyelids were becoming heavier with each second. "After your death, he promised to never be late again; that's why he goes running at every emergency."

Jason definitely hadn't been prepared for such a turn in their conversation. His brow furrowed and he touched his brother's forehead again, obviously believing that Dick was talking through the fever. He wouldn't have continued with the discussion if he'd taken Richard seriously.

"Well, if he had killed the Joker, there wouldn't be so many emergencies now, would there?"

"He did nothing to kill the Joker," Dick managed to utter, his speech becoming slurred again and his eyelids dropping. "But he did many things that almost killed himself."

Jason replied, but Dick was already pulled under a blanket of fever and sleep again, where he stayed for the next few days.

Although he regained consciousness sporadically, he lost his grip on time completely. Only when the fever lessened did he realize that Jason hadn't left for Gotham as usual, but had stayed in Blüdhaven with him.

-tbc-

_...okay, I have to admit, I loved writing this :). This is definitely my most favourite chapter so far, and I would love to know what you think about it! Don't get used to fast updates, though, I fear this was the exception to the rule._

_Love to all the reviewers, followers and readers in general, you all make my day! Pekuxumi_


	11. Chapter 10

_Medicial termini will be explained at the end of the chapter._

LIFELINES

CHAPTER TEN

"_This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard."_

"So will you help me?"

"_Dick, they'll kill you."_

"So scared. Babs, I need to know if I can count on you or not."

"_You're serious, aren't you?"_

"Yes."

"_There are many possibilities to connect this to Gotham; which one do you want to use?"_

"The aggressive one, from the second email."

"_Oh, for the love of God..."_

"What? Just use the names of dead people. What's the worst that could happen?"

"_You want them to dig out a grave! Dammit, this is _too_ obvious, they'll find out eventually."_

"It's the quickest way, and I don't want them to chase shadows for the rest of their lives. I want them to work on this shit together and if they'll find out it was me... well, so what? I'm dead anyway."

"_Dick! Don't say that."_

"So you'll help me?"

"_...yes."_

######### ############### #############

Richard dimly remembered a time when waking up didn't suck so badly.

That was back in a time when his life hadn't been devided into good days and bad days. Right now, though, he desperately tried to convince his body to fall back asleep the second his mind scratched the surface of consciousness.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!"

Dick cracked an unwilling eye open at the voice, ready to give Jay a piece of his mind, when he recognized that it was Tim who was sitting beside the bed and grinning excitedly.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" he asked sleepily, pulling the blankets closer around him. He remembered chemo, an exhausting one again, and Jason who more or less dragged him into the flat... Where was Jason, anyway?

"It's Saturday," Tim said, smiling gently.

"No, it's not. It's..." Dick needed a moment to recall, "Friday."

"No, you slept through Friday." There was a book on Tim's lap, but Dick couldn't see the cover. Judging from the drawings inside, it had to be something medical again. "Jason called this morning to get someone else to watch over you. Apparently he needed to attend to some business."

Dick couldn't blame him. Jason had stayed with him for the last two weeks, rarely leaving his side. The first administration of his chemo round had shaken him up badly, even if he would never admit it. After it became obvious that the new chemo was affecting Dick strongly, Jason refused to leave him alone. Richard had insisted on some compromise, but retching just after bringing up the argument hadn't been very helpful.

"Jason called you?"

"No, he called Oracle and ordered someone to Blüdhaven. Bruce is still in Hong Kong, so Alfred asked me."

"You're free of Ivy's mold?"

"Yes, I'm immune now, and my clothes have been disinfected. But Damian is still conta-_ oh my God_."

Dick had started to get up slowly, hefting himself up on his elbows when Tim's eyes suddenly bulged and he went white, staring at him. When Tim realized what he had just said, he clapped a hand over his mouth in shame.

"What?"

Dick followed Tim's gaze, still shocked and wide-eyed, to the pillow. There was a mass of thick, raven hair, too much to ignore again. Dick faintly ran a hand over his head, and it came back full – he could feel bald spots underneath his fingers. "_That's_ coming up, huh?"

Five minutes later, he was sitting in his bathroom on the edge of the tub and staring at his reflection in the mirror. The side of his head which had rested on the pillow looked pretty bad, no argument there. Some spots held only sporadic strands of hair; when he touched them, they detached and fell slowly to the ground.

The electric shaver was already in his hand. He looked at it dubiously, then back at his reflection. _Oh, just do it!_, he scolded himself and pushed the button. Buzzing filled the room and echoed from the tiles, and Tim burst into the room within seconds.

"Don't do it!"

Dick stopped the movement midway, the buzzing razor only inches away from his skull.

"You got a better idea?"

Tim turned bright red at once, staring at his brother and the razor in his hand, at this inevitable situation. Then he reached out for the razor, taking it from Dick's hand.

"May I...?" Tim asked tentatively, and Dick motioned for him to do whatever he wanted. "Maybe we can conceal it somehow..."

"_Conceal it_?" Dick repeated incredulously, but by then Tim had already stepped closer and ran the razor down at the middle of his brother's head in one swift motion, shaving a bald stripe right where Dick's hair had parted.

The buzzing fell silent and both brothers stared into the mirror's reflection.

"And how exactly is this supposed to help?"

Tim deadpanned as he turned to Dick, "No one's gonna look at the sides now."

Nodding slowly, their gaze met again the mirror, but broke off when they both cracked up.

############ ################## ##################

The TV was on, sound turned down to a low mumbling in the background.

Dick was sitting on his couch, leaning against a ridiculous amount of cushions, staring into nothing. He felt numb; he had probably taken one too many pills against the pain, but he couldn't care less. Jason was minding his own business in Gotham, and Richard enjoyed the moment of silence, of calm.

He was thankful for his brother's help, and there was no point anymore in denying that he needed it too, but keeping up an optimistic facade had become more and more exhausting. Dick didn't know how much of it Jason was buying anyway. He had seen him in his lowest moments – pulled him through most of them, actually – but Dick still felt the need to confirm Jason's 'It's gonna be fine' and 'Stop moping around'.

Being alone enabled him to finally let go of the fake smiles. No need to get up, no need to do _anything_. So Dick kept staring into nothing, thinking about nothing, only occasionally picking up his buzzing mobile phone and rejecting an incoming call.

_'Roy H. calling'_ – rejected.

_'Princess Timmy calling'_ – rejected.

_'Wayne manor calling' _– rejected.

_'Jaybird calling'_ – rejected.

He'd feel bad about it tomorrow, but right now he just didn't want to talk to anyone. So he kept rejecting the calls to his mobile phone and ignoring the ringing of his home phone soon after, only rolling his eyes from time to time. His laptop was glimmering guiltily at him from across the table; he really should get on with his master plan, but... no, he just didn't want to get up now.

Suddenly, someone was knocking on his door.

Richard groaned and covered his face with a pillow to muffle the sound. Thank God the sound of his TV was tuned down. He had played this game a few times already, listening to his landlord screaming at him for paying the rent too late, apologizing dutifully and then playing the cancer-card to get rid of him. He would come back tomorrow if Dick ignored him now.

No such luck. Instead of steps hurrying away, he heard the sound of keys in his lock. Bruce was standing in his living room before Dick could even heft himself into a upright position. They stared at each other, surprised.

"Why are you not answering the door?" Bruce asked finally, his gaze flickering from his son's bald head back to his face. "Or your phone? Everyone's worried."

"I was busy," Dick answered without much conviction, leaning back into his pillows and already tired of the situation and the argument he knew was bound to come.

"With what?" Bruce was looking around in the room, taking in the close-drawn curtains and the silent TV. "Feeling sorry for yourself?"

Richard should get angry, a little voice in the back of his mind told him, but he just couldn't convince himself to bring up the energy. He shrugged instead.

The lack of response obviously worried Bruce; his brow was knit in irritation, but he refrained from saying anything. Instead, he made his way over to the window and pulled the curtains open, bathing the apartment in sunlight.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut and turned away from the light. "What are you doing?!"

"Cassandra is fine by the way. Just in case you worried."

Oh, yeah. Bruce had been in Hong Kong, to help Cass. Dick hadn't thought about it. Or anything else for that matter. He realized that Bruce was looking at him expectantly. "That's good," he said therefore.

"What's up with you? You used to care about these things."

"Yeah, well, I used to have hair, too."

Bruce crossed his arms, annoyed, and glared at him. "Don't give me that attitude."

So he didn't, and nobody said anything for a while, until Bruce finally gave up and signed deeply. "Dick," he said. "The last time I saw you, you were bradycardic and speaking Romanian. Don't tell me you're fine."

"I didn't."

That threw Bruce off course, onto another one Dick really didn't want to deal with. "You're not? What hurts?" In a matter of seconds Bruce was all over him, checking his pulse and touching his forehead and he would have done who knows what else if Dick hadn't pushed him away.

"Bruce! Get a grip!"

"I'm just trying to help you!"

"I don't _need _help!" Which was not entirely true, he knew perfectly well, but _dammit_ he just wanted to things to be quiet and calm and –

"_Grayson!_"

Both of them flinched at the harsh voice that rang out, followed by a frantic pounding against the apartment door.

Dick sighed and slumped against his pillows, before he finally attempted to get up.

"Stay put," the older man growled. Dick complied willingly, and watched with mixed feelings as Bruce made his way towards the door. He heard the door open and Bruce's voice, then suddenly his landlord was towering above him, in his face in merely a few seconds.

A litany of curses and threats was poured over him while a meaty finger poked into his chest again and again. Bruce appeared behind Mr. Fawks's shoulder and raised an eyebrow, amused.

Richard tried to smile charmingly and get a grip on the situation, but then his landlord made the fatal mistake of gripping his shirt. Bruce was on him instantly, snarling, and he dragged the cursing man away from his son and out of the room.

Dick stared at the spot where they had vanished, and listened to the snippets of their conversation he could hear. There were Mr. Fawks's loud and colourful curses and complaints, then Bruce's low voice, dangerous and probably combined with the batglare, and then his landlord left quickly.

The door was closed soon after, and Dick fell back against his pillows, relieved. "Are you coming with a white horse, too?" he asked, smiling apologetically when Bruce appeared in the doorway again.

His surrogate father made his way towards the couch and sat down across from his son. "I paid your rent for the next three months. Why didn't you tell me you had financial problems?"

Dick tensed involuntarily, mind racing. "I don't have any, my health insurance is just very slow. They haven't rubber-stamped the new chemo yet, so I have to pay it myself for the time being..." he trailed off, sighing tiredly.

He was so sick of lying, and there was so little energy left. His mind refused to fabricate more, and if Bruce was paying attention, he could tear through the story in seconds. Sure, his insurance company consisted of a bunch of slow idiots that dared to ask him questions like 'Is the chemo really necessary?' or 'And you are sure your doctor ordered this?', but the figures didn't match up on his bank account. He was broke this month because he had just paid for a dozen burial services for empty coffins in Gotham. And damn, those were expansive.

"Have you called them already?" Bruce was all businesslike at once.

Dick motioned to the table, where a pile of documents and letters towered. "They're on my list..."

Bruce nodded, patted Richard's shoulder, and got up.

Before Dick could protest, he had already grabbed the phone and dialed the first number he could find on the topmost document, skimming through it while he waited for someone to pick up.

A smile tugged at Dick's lips, and he snuggled deeper into the pillows and blankets, listening to Bruce give someone on the receiving end of the line living hell.

############ ################### ###############

Jason really had become the most disgustingly sappy person ever. Period.

He had feared it for a while, and his suspicions were confirmed while he tried to squeeze himself into one of Dick's old Nightwing costumes.

"Jay, this is the stupidest thing you've ever done."

He ignored his older brother's protests again, as he had done during the past ten minutes.

"I never said you were 'too fat' to fit into one, don't do this to yourself!"

_True enough_, Jason thought as he twisted his arm painfully to reach for the zip in the back, but Dick had been close enough with saying that maybe _the Replacement_ would fit into his old costumes after his death. Of course, as a dutiful brother/nurse/friend/whatever he had simply told him to shut up, but then Dick had looked up at him with those big eyes and asked what death felt like.

And Jason, feeling as if someone had punched him in the gut and overcome by memories about the smell of soil, blood and wood, had chickened out and decided that enough was enough.

Finally he managed to grab the zipper and – "Tadaa!" – pulled it all the way up, cursing strongly. Movement was heavily limited, and breathing definitely shouldn't be this hard, but there he was, suited in one of the original Nightwing costumes, with the blue bird in front and the fingerstripes. If this wouldn't distract Dick from drowning in self-pity, nothing would.

Dick made a strangled noise behind him. Jason pivoted on his heels, ready to catch him or steady him or do whatever his sick brother might need, but found that his worry had been completely unfounded.

Richard was desperately trying to hold back his laughter, muffling the sound with a hand clasped against his mouth tightly.

"You look... sexy," he managed to press out in a failed attempt to stay serious, cracking up immediately.

Jason felt the weight lift from his mind and released a breath he had been holding for far too long. Dick had been depressed for days, either feeling miserable after chemo or behaving passively, almost apathetically. It was just wrong to see Dick in such an uncaring state, as if he had given up any fight or hope. Jason had never before experienced him like that, and never wanted to again.

Seeing him laugh felt good, simple as that. He really was the most sappy idiot ever, he might as well make it official.

Grinning, he turned towards the mirror and observed his reflection. He looked ridiculous, as if someone had tried to cram too much cotton wool into a teddy and then sewed too little cloth around it.

"Okay, unzip me now, I'd like to breathe again someday."

Snickering silently, Dick grabbed the zipper and pulled. Nothing happened.

Jason shifted a bit to see his brother's expression in the mirror and became slightly worried when he saw the wide, unbelieving eyes.

"Uh, Jay..? The zipper kinda … broke."

Nobody moved or said anything for a few long, long seconds, before Dick's eyes screwed up and he broke down into one seriously life threatening laughing fit, gasping for air and losing his ability to stay upright.

Jason on the other hand didn't know if he should be laughing or crying.

"Oh, shit," Dick breathed silently between chuckles, and Jason could see the blood running down from his nose. The nosebleeds had started about two weeks ago and freaked him out at the beginning, but he had learned to deal with them as they came. Dick had explained that it was 'just' his thrombocyte level running low, resulting in blood that didn't clot as fast as it should anymore.

Wordlessly, he handed a box of tissues to his brother, who was by now seated on the edge of the bed and still chuckling silently. "So, uh, you got scissors or anything?"

Holding a Kleenex against his nose, Richard started to laugh again. "Dude, do you think my suits are that easily to destroy? You can't cut Kevlar with scissors!"

"But.." The dimensions of his imbecility started to dawn on Jason. "How am I going to get out of this thing now?"

Dick was getting up now, slowly, probably trying to make his way to the bathroom to clean himself up. He chuckled again and wiped away the tears from his cheeks, before he pulled Jason into a short hug.

"Eww, you're bleeding all over the suit!" Jason piped up surprised.

"You're awesome, Jaybird," Dick said before pulling back. "You sacrificed your balls to cheer me up!"

"What?!" Jason shouted, when Dick walked out of the door, "I did no such thi – _hhh!_". The second he tried to take a step forward to follow his brother, the Kevlar cloth tightened in his crotch and made his voice go up a notch.

Dick's laughter echoed through the apartment, but Jason really had other things on his mind.

############# ############### ###############

Richard got up after chemo, talking to Jason, when his eyes suddenly rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness.

Bruce sprinted two steps forward, too far away to catch him, but close enough to shove the falling body back onto the bed instead of letting him hit the hard ground.

Jason was at his side in an instant, slapping Dick's cheeks softly and checking his pulse and breathing when there was no answer.

"He's out cold."

Bruce pushed the button to the nurses' station. "He was fine a second ago."

They were staring down at the still figure below them at a loss for words, when a nurse entered. She took control of the situation after one wary glance and called for a doctor through her comm link with a bored, unagitated voice.

They were ushered out of the private room Bruce had insisted on after the first chemo administration by another nurse. Jason let himself fall into one of the uncomfortable green plastic chairs outside while Bruce remained standing, leaning against the wall with crossed arms.

They waited, while doctors and nurses entered and left the room in no big hurry, smiling at them politely and whispering to one another. They probably recognized Bruce as the guy who had screamed bloody murder at them only a short while ago, and Bruce couldn't care less. He was fairly sure that they were doing their job this time, and their lack of anxiety told him that his eldest was fine, relatively speaking.

There was a saying in the oncology department: Things have to get worse before they get better. The harder chemotherapy was affecting a patient, the better it worked. It was a perverse logic, but it was true. The treatment that reduced his son to a shivering and tired patient was finally working, even if that meant that Richard wasn't able to stay awake during the administration anymore or weighted less than he did when he was fourteen.

Bruce glanced towards Jason with mixed feelings, and found that he was on the verge of falling asleep. Sprawled over two chairs and chin resting in one of his hands, Jason's eyelids were dropping dangerously. It made Bruce realize for the first time that the whole affair was affecting his wayward son too, that he had looked tired and exhausted for a while now.

He needed a haircut, and a good dose of sleep, obviously. Bruce dimly remembered their deal, even if he was fairly sure that neither of those two still stuck to it; he didn't like the idea of having a sleep deprived Jason out in Blüdhaven tonight.

"This needs to stop," he said out loud, startling Jason awake, who went into defensive mode immediately.

"What does?" he asked warily, as if expecting Bruce to try to get rid of him.

Bruce motioned towards Dick's room. "This. You can't keep this up." Jason opened his mouth instantly to defend himself, but Bruce went on quickly, trying to clear what he meant. "You can't be there 24/7, he needs to return to Gotham."

"I know." Jason was surprisingly sober and let a bit of the tiredness shine through again. "He doesn't want to."

"You need to convince him."

Jason sneered. "I think that's your part."

"He listens to you."

Now Jason turned towards Bruce incredulously, but Bruce was serious, there was no doubt in his voice. "He trusts you, and he'll listen to what you say. He needs to come home."

After a moment, Jason nodded finally. "I'll think of something."

################ ################### #############

"So," Tim stated, obviously in discomfort, "Remission, huh?"

"Yep."

"That's... good, right?"

"Yep."

Looking through the glass at their brother, Jason and Tim both thought the same. "It doesn't look good," the younger one finally admitted, before he pulled the mask over his face.

Jason only nodded, lost in thoughts. They should be elated by the news – exhilarated, really. Remission meant the chemo had worked, there were no cancerous cells left in Richard's body. It was the initial step to recovery for a cancer patient; without this one, there wasn't any chance of survival. Tim had read so much about it in the last weeks, he had basically been obsessed with it. So much so that he completely ignored what came with it.

Pancytopenia was a funny word. Tim remembered reading it in one of his books. It was a side effect of chemo and plainest during the first steps of remission. Somehow, it just wouldn't match up in his head with the pale, barely conscious figure of his big brother he could see through the glass pane.

It was logical, really. The chemo not only destroyed the cancerous cells in Dick's blood, but also many of the healthy ones. It had rendered him immunocompromised earlier, and augmented into the condition of pancytopenia with the new, stronger chemo mixture. While there were less than the usual number of working leukocytes in his brother's blood before, now there were none. Nothing to protect his body against infections.

When Jason had called them earlier today, Richard had already been moved into isolation. Everything was white, antiseptic. Entrance to the room was tightly controlled – only one person at a time, and only in full gear, which meant a white respiratory mask, white gloves, white gown, white hairnet, and white plastic shoes. Daring to leave or enter any room without cleaning one's hands with disinfectant resulted in capital punishment, executed by the nurses... or so Jason had told him. Richard himself was wearing of these masks, even though Tim could see the breathing tubes on either side of his face.

Every little germ could mean lethal infection, Tim remembered reading – a thought that sent shivers down his spine.

He had imagined remission as something they would celebrate. But as it were, Dick was barely able to stay awake. _Of course_, Tim chided himself; the precautionary antibiotics must have knocked him out completely.

He tried to remind himself that_ remission was good_, that Dick only had to stay in there for a few days until healthy leukocytes were produced again. But hell, Dick was pale as a corpse and it was really, _really_ hard to be happy about it.

Tim watched how Bruce squeezed Dick's gloved hand one last time and stood up. It was his turn to go in, and he realized with a start that he didn't want to. He was too afraid.

"When did the rigor stop?" he asked instead, trying to find his way back into professionality. Bruce had taught him early how to mask his emotions and stay focused, but he had never mentioned that his heart would beat as rapidly as it did.

"The who?" Jason turned to him puzzled, pulled out of his thoughts.

"The shivering."

"Oh, _shivering_!" Jason sneered, "About two hours before you guys came. Although 'shivering' is an understatement. I was afraid he might fall of the bed."

It was the longest utterance out of Jason's mouth so far, and it didn't do a damn thing to calm him down.

"You don't need to go in there, you know." Jason suddenly said solemnly, and Tim flinched. Busted. He opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off instantly. "Don't even try. Dick's not the only one who can read people. I don't think he'll notice; he's so high up on meds, he probably thinks he's the swan queen right now."

It made Tim grin involuntary, and he was glad the mask was hiding it.

"And I think he just fell asleep. He hasn't said goodbye to Bruce."

True. Bruce was making his way through the hygienic double door system, stripping down the gown and shoes on his way while he waited for the second door to open.

"Thanks..." Tim heard himself saying, truly relieved. Dick's words came back to him, back when he was staying at the manor and was arguing with Bruce about Jason. "...for everything."

"Uh, ...sure?" Jason replied, clearly surprised. They stared at each other awkwardly – they had never interacted much (at least not in a socially acceptible way), and reading each other's expressions was pretty hard with masks covering half of their faces.

Luckily, Bruce reached them in just that moment and stoppen whatever conversation they were having with simply grabbing an elbow of both of his sons and leading them out of the isolation unit firmly. Jason glared daggers at him, but didn't resist.

"Tim, you can visit him tomorrow. He needs to rest," he said with a voice that didn't leave any room for discussion. Tim sighed inwardly and barely managed to contain his smile when they got rid of their masks outside of the unit.

"What did he say?" he asked, peeling off his gloves. The skin under the latex was sweaty, thanks to his anxiety.

"He's high as a kite on antibiotics, and keeps nodding off... but he's aware of the isolation unit and the remission." Bruce's expression was strained, there were deep lines around his mouth, and he dragged a tired hand across his eyes when he thought they weren't watching.

Tim had seldom seen Bruce displaying stress. He didn't like it. "But hey, he's in remission! That's _good!_"

The smile Bruce gave him was so fake that Tim felt almost offended. But then the mask slipped back in place again, and all professional Bruce turned to Jason. "What's the name of the drug dealer you two are chasing in Blüdhaven?"

Jason's eyes narrowed, he obviously didn't like giving away information. "If we knew, we wouldn't chase him. There hasn't been much going on in 'Haven lately, but he used many code names when he was active. Jared Harrison, Matt Carr, René Gaston, Joseph Ra –"

"Raleigh," Bruce finished for him. "The name appears in some police reports that date back to February."

Jason stared at him, and Tim could hear the gear wheels turning.

"He's planning something big in Gotham."

-tbc-

**medical explanations:**

**bradycardia: **is the term for having a heart rate of under 50 beats per minute, meaning its too low (usual heart rate of a resting adult is about 60-70). It can cause cardiac arrest, since the heart doesn't manage to pump enough oxygen to the heart muscle. (and before you all start to feel your pulse and panic: young adults and athletes often have a slower heart beat, that's NORMAL ;P. Blood pressure and heart rate go up with age, and since heart problems aren't common in youths the scala is set to define older people. If Bruce says Dick is bradycardic, that would mean that his heart rate was probably around 40-50, since he is young AND athletic.)

**leukocytes**: are the white blood cells. They are an integral part of the immune system and are produced in the bone marrow. There are different kinds of leukoytes that have different functions, like the granulocyte or lymphocytes, but they all should defend the body from infectual diseases.

**thrombocytes: **are another component of blood cells besides leukocytes and erythrocytes), the platelets. Basically, they are responsible for stopping a bleeding, for making the blood 'clot'. If their count is too low, there will be hemorraghing - the bleeding won't stop or stop too slow; if their count is too high, there is the danger of thrombosis, a blood clot that clogs the blood vessel and stop proper blood flow or even gets flushed into the heart or lung, cutting them off of blood eventually.

**Remission: **The goal of every chemotherapy is to reach remission. This is the temporary state of having no cancer cells in the patient's body. The chemotherapy then changes into another phase, the **Consolidation phase**, that tries to maintain the remission as long as possible. Some cancer types can be defeated with persisting remission. Leukemic patients usually need a transplantation, since the cause of their illness is the malfunction of an organ that cannot be simply stopped or removed.

######## ########### #########

_let's talk about medical authenticity. Truth be told, Dick should have lost his hair muuuch earlier. Chemo patients usually shave their hair after a few administations already. The effects of chemo vary for each person and heavily depend on the physical state. Since Richard used to be very fit, I figured I could go slow on him. The effects he is suffering from now are the same most cancer patients have to face from the very beginning of treatment. But for some reasons I just can't picture Richard without hair oO. I even toyed with the idea of letting him keep it (a small amount of patients does!), but frankly I am just not that nice. ...So, if I refer to his hair in following chapters, bear with me :D._

_Congrats, we have completed around 50% of the story! Now we have careful interactions between Jason and the rest of the family, and a patient who is starting to grow tired of everything. I wanted to express the passing of some time with this chapter, I hope it worked. The plan was to have many short glimpses, but I'm just not good with 'short'^^. I also repeated some medical explanations, cause I'm just that nice. _

_Time to adress some issues my lovely reviewers have stated:_

They could just throw him into a Lazarus pit!_ – Yes, I'm aware of that possibility. Lazarus pits will be mentioned soon._

Bruce should get a grip and act like a father! – _yes, he should! He's trying, believe me. But remember that we're talking about a guy who didn't even hug his son who came back from the dead after being brutally murdered._

Do you listen to music while you write? – _Always. There's always Pink Floyd ('Poles Apart'! "..why did we tell you/ You were always the Golden Boy/ And I never thought you could lose that light in your eyes.") and The Dirty Pretty Things ('Faultlines', 'the North', 'Truth Begins'). A few days ago I listened to 'Losing my religion' and almost started to cry because the lyrics are sooo fitting for Dick's situation! oO_

Why are scenes with Damian so scarce? –_ Because he's a ten-year-old kid who can't deal with the situation and tries to shove it away. And since the story is mainly written from Dick's POV, there isn't much Damian so far (yet)._

Please don't let Dick die! – _..uh... _


	12. Chapter 11

LIFELINES

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Richard stared at his doctor as if she was talking in a foreign language.

"I... don't understand," he forced out after a while, and Dr. Flores stopped talking and looked at him with a pained expression.

Somehow, nothing on this day was going according to his liking. The week had started fine, though. He was allowed to leave the isolation unit and go home, after promising to be careful and wearing his mask (which he had gotten rid of the moment he had stepped out of the hospital), without one single detectable cancerous cell in his body and with a fresh infusion of healthy leukocytes. The recuperation phase was shorter than the ones before, but that was fine with him. Now that he was in remission, he could actually see a point in his therapy.

Until today, that is.

First, Jason hadn't showed up and didn't answer his calls. That was... unusual, to say the least. And worrisome. When the time came to leave for his doctor's appointment and Jason had still not appeared, Dick had called a cab.

He hadn't realized what a careful driver Jason was until he was seated in the taxi from the darkest pits of hell, and he made a promise to himself that he would tell his brother if he made it out of there alive.

Arriving at the hospital on shaky legs (shakier than usual), Doctor Flores was awaiting him with a grim expression on her face that made his relatively good mood melt away in anticipation.

"...we haven't found a suitable bone marrow donor," she repeated now, patiently but clearly uncomfortable.

_That_ wasn't the problem; Dick had understood that after hearing it for the first time already. And as scary and bad as it was, he hadn't been surprised. He hadn't given himself away to illusions when he filled out the documents concerning his ancestry and ethnicity – hell, he wasn't able to answer some of the questions himself! Gypsies didn't keep ancestral charts.

The hospital had even checked with the European database when they came up empty from the American one. But there weren't many gypsies that registered in bone marrow transplantation databases, Europe or North America. And since his parents came from different regions of Europe on top of their complicated ancestry, there wasn't much sense in checking East-Europe more thoroughly. He may have been born somewhere in Romania, but his ethnicity was just as colourful as Damian liked to point out.

So when the doc told him there wasn't any donor, he wasn't surprised. Disappointed – yes. Scared shitless – yes. But not surprised. It was what she said next that threw him off track and made his brow furrow.

"I don't understand the immunotherapy part," he explained therefore. "How is this supposed to work?"

A flicker of relief washed over Dr. Flores' face; she'd probably feared he would throw a fit about the unsuccessful donor search.

"Look," she said, "remission is only a temporary state, which we of course try to maintain as long as possible with further consolidation chemo." Dick nodded mechanically, he got that. "Acute myeloid leukemia requires a transplantation, which is not realizable in your situation, and the two failed chemotherapies you underwent earlier showed that you are not responding particularly well to chemo in general. The one that brought you into remission has been... extreme."

Again, Dick nodded. He had noticed _that_, too.

"So we will try a different approach, the immunotherapy. Basically we will try to stimulate your immune system to reject and destroy cancerous cells."

"And that's the part I don't understand," Dick tried to clarify. "I thought my immune system isn't working properly due to the leukemia." ..._and your chemotherapy, thank you very much._

"As long as your bone marrow produces healthy white blood cells, we can train them. We'll keep the cancerous cells as low as possible through aggressive consolidation chemotherapy and administer proteins that will stimulate your healthy leukocytes to attack the remaining ones."

Dick had stopped listening carefully at the mentioning of 'aggressive consolidation chemotherapy'. Basically, he mused, things wouldn't change for him. He'd get chemo and something extra, probably one pill a day more. Oh, the joy.

Dr. Flores had stopped talking and was looking at him patiently.

"So," he started therefore, dutifully, "what's my prognosis?"

Her expression changed, what he called the 'doctor's-mask' slipping back into place. She coughed slightly, "Immunotherapy improves the chances of permanent remission by 14 percent."

'Permanent remission' definitely sounded better than 'survival'. Richard wondered briefly if she had read that on her computer screen or if she had learned that by heart._ He_'d know this sentence by heart from now on. 14 percent wasn't much, and combined with his already slim chances without a bone marrow transplantation, the resulting picture was a pretty grim one. _Crap._

"Treatment should start as soon as possible," Dr. Flores reminded him, and thus threw him out gently.

When he stepped out of her office onto the floor of the oncology unit, a nurse was already waiting for him. She was smiling reassuringly and touched his arm as they walked, so he knew that they had planned this appointment afore. She lead him towards a room where everything was already set up, from the chemo mixture to emergency defibrillator (mandatory, she assured him, never in use.).

######### ############## ###########

The drive back home was brutal.

Already shaky and nauseous, Dick couldn't believe his bad luck when he sat in the cab and breathed in heavy clouds of patchouli. The driver refused to open a window due to the chilly December air, and since Dick was not up to arguing he just tried to breathe as shallowly as possible.

Sick or healthy, he mused, he would never ever be able to smell patchouli again without getting nauseous.

But somehow he managed to make it through the ride without hurling over the dashboard, and somehow he managed to pay the driver without punching him.

He had believed that he had finally made it through the worst of the day when he came to a sudden halt in the hallway and stared at the sign on the elevator doors, dumbstruck.

"_Out of order."_

….

This wasn't true, right?

Dick slid down on one of the cold steps without ever taking his eyes of the sign, and remained there for about fifteen minutes, non-believing and embarrassingly close to tears.

He couldn't walk up three sets of stairs, he just couldn't. He had barely managed the manor's stairs a month ago, during recuperation. But at the same time, he couldn't stay seated on the cold stone – he was shivering now already and catching the flu would equal signing his own death warrant.

Jason still hadn't called or texted him. Bruce was working, Tim was in school. Alfred would be there in an instant if he called, but he would never dare to ask the old man to carry him upstairs. He tried to reach Wally, but of course the speedster's cellphone was turned off.

The realization of the magnitude of his dependence felt like running into a brick wall.

Slowly, Dick's heartbeat normalized, and a numb feeling spread through his body. It was most welcome, he had become tired of pain or fear or worry. Numb was the only thing he could deal with, right now.

Looking at the whole situation from another point of view, it was actually quite funny.

Dick breathed out a shaky laugh that sounded almost like a sob and closed his eyes. His chances of survival were next to nothing anyway, he might as well pass out on the staircase and break his neck.

Pulling himself up, he shot the elevator a dirty look and began to climb the stairs slowly but steadily. His legs ached after the first staircase, he was panting heavily after the second, and he began to feel dizzy and see stars going up the third.

Dimly, Richard tried to remember a time when he had jumped up those stairs without thinking twice about it – he _knew_ it had happened – but he couldn't. Those times seemed so far away, even though he remembered clearly that it had 'only' been three months since he had been diagnosed... It felt like a lifetime.

Fidgeting with his keys numbly, Dick somehow managed to open his door and stumble in, despite his blurry and spinning vision. Closing the door again while leaning against it in support, he slid down the cold wood into a seated position and buried his head into his knees. He was _so _done with everything. Seriously, he should have opted for the neck breaking.

"You're bald."

Dick flinched violently at the voice and stared flabbergasted at the figure in front of him.

"Damian?" he asked, not trusting his senses the least. Only a few meters in front of him stood his little brother, arms crosses and with an emotionless expression.

"And you're bleeding."

Confused, Dick looked down on his shirt, searching for whatever blood Damian might have seen. There was some on his sleeve and chest – his nose has started bleeding again, probably sometime during his climb up the stairs. He brought a shaking hand up to his face, pressing the soft fabric of his sleeve against his nose.

"Damian, what are you doing here?"

His brother looked like he was asking himself the same question. After all, during his stay at the manor the boy had carefully avoided him, talking as little as possible, and since Dick had returned to Blüdhaven there hadn't been any phone calls or visits. There had to be a reason why Damian was standing in his hallway right now.

"Pennyworth sent me," Damian answered with an edge of annoyance at the mention of the butler's name. He didn't like being ordered around. "He wanted me to assist you with your packing."

"Packing?"

"They are disinfecting the manor right now, Pennyworth or father will pick you up this evening."

Dick nodded slowly, taking in the information given. Right, it had been more than three weeks now since Ivy's fungi. He hadn't completed his master plan, but things were on the way. Barbara had a good grip on it and all Dick had to do was to fill out the paychecks, basically. No excuse to delay being a burden to his family anymore. Richard had dreaded this moment, but right now? Sitting on his apartment floor and struggling with the task of holding up his arm, he couldn't care less about anything anymore.

The apathy was new to him, but he actually liked it. He should have settled for it sooner. Things were a lot easier to deal with if you didn't care.

Or so he thought, since Damian's next words had him flinching so hard it hurt in his bones.

"Todd has been shot, by the way. I take it nobody has told you so far."

"_What?!_"

If Damian was explaining something, Dick didn't hear it. The sudden movement and the adrenaline that flooded his veins had a strange effect on his stomach. He could feel the familiar bile rising in his throat, adding to his nausea, and then his stomach clenched painfully and Dick was on his feet faster than he would have thought possible.

The next second his knees hit the bathroom floor and he noisily blew chunks into the toilet in front of him.

Through the wet retching, he could hear Damian's steps coming closer, following him into the bathroom. When the first wave of nausea ebbed away and left Dick panting and shivering over the toilet bowl, he dared to speak again.

"Is he... alright?"

"Really, Grayson?" Damian asked, indignantly. He was standing a few meters away from where Dick was crouching, refusing to step closer. "You can't even sit upright and you worry about _him?_"

"Yes," Dick said weakly, building up the courage to pull away from the white china to observe the mess he had made – ugh, he was still bleeding, and the mixtures of colors he had produced was really, really gross.

Damian had arrived at the same conclusion. "That is disgusting."

Richard grabbed a handful of toilet paper and pressed it against his nose, leaning back slowly and carefully against the bath tub. The cold tiles felt wonderful – he suspected he might be developing a fever again. There was nothing he could do about that now, so he just closed his eyes and tried to shut out the waves of sickness that piled up again.

"He'll be fine, _fortunately,_" Damian said finally, never hiding the spite in his voice. "Nothing serious, but one lung was nicked and Thompkins hooked him up to a drainage. He's drugged so he'd stop moving around."

_...or pick up his phone._ Dick felt the weight lift from his mind. Jason was fine, just not allowed to move. Bruce and Alfred had understood the complications at once and reacted accordingly.

"So what no –"

Whatever Damian wanted to say drowned in a new swooshing in his ears and again he was huddled over the toilet, retching and vomiting. This time his body wasn't as merciful as the first time, not leaving him a second to relax. Through the panting, retching and coughing, he could hear Damian.

"This is pathetic, Grayson. Get a grip on yourself."

"I don't understand why Todd would expose himself to that voluntarily."

"You're a grown man, this display is disgracing."

"_Damian,_" Dick managed to breathe out in a precious moment of rest, during which he buried his face into his arm, holding tightly onto the china. "_Shut up or get out_."

He'd never spoken like that to the proud little ex-assassin before. Building up trust in their relationship depended heavily on showing Damian that Dick didn't feel superior or in charge, showing him that he wasn't one of those who exploited him. But he really,_ really,_ didn't need to listen to this anymore.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see how Damian took an uncertain step backwards, but then halted. Shifting his gaze upward, he realized with a start that Damian was afraid. Terrified, actually.

He kept his facade carefully, but underneath Dick could see that his brother didn't know what to do. After that first doubtful step, he had stopped and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He had never before seen Damian at a loss for words. It stung.

Richard knew he should feel terrible about it. He _wanted_ to, but his attention shifted inward again when he suddenly began to feel lightheaded. Sucking in the fresh air after the vomiting had probably bordered on hyperventilation, and his vision was beginning to spin.

He needed to lie down, quickly.

"Grayson, what are you doing?!" Damian exclaimed when Dick let go of the china and slowely lowered himself to the ground.

Resting his forehead on the cold tiles felt good, and he could finally feel his whole body relaxing.

He sighed quietly.

"Get up, you can't lie on the _floor_!"

"Just a second, Damian," he muttered quietly, gaze meeting his little brother's under half closed lids.

But even as he said it, he knew he wouldn't be getting up soon. He could feel the exhaustion taking over, and he was only too willing to give in to the wave of sleep that rolled over him.

##### ######### ############

Dick woke up from the mixture of sleep and unconsciousness when the sun was already setting. Through the small bathroom window, he could watch the dim light casting fuzzy shadows over the tiles.

There was a faint voice speaking in another room; Richard could make out a British accent. Alfred's voice was drowning in the noise the blaring heater made, and when Dick shifted his gaze upwards, he could see that the door was closed.

He hefted himself up into a sitting position and barely suppressed a groan when his limbs protested. He was used to the ever present ache by now, but lying on the hard ground for hours hadn't exactly helped.

When he turned around he finally saw Damian, and a broad smile tugged at his lips. His little brother was lying only a meter from him, curled up like a kitten and sleeping tightly. He had apparently decided to settle for the 'shut up' instead of the 'get out', and Dick suspected him of turning on the heater, since Damian had stripped out of his sweater and had stuffed it underneath his head as a makeshift pillow.

He must have been really tired, for Damian didn't even stir when Dick finally got up on his feet. Richard decided to let him sleep for a while longer, while he would talk over the organizational issues with Alfred.

Dick closed the bathroom door behind him carefully and followed the British voice into the kitchen. Alfred was talking on the phone, and the tone he was using was definitely not one he would use with Bruce.

Alfred noticed him entering and nodded in greeting, smiling, before he pointed at the stove with a no-nonsense-expression. There was something cooking in a pot, _of course_, but Dick was relieved that it was only soup. He could handle soup.

While he poured some of it into a bowl (damn, he had to admit it smelled delicious) and took a seat, he listened to Alfred ordering someone on the other line around. He had a faint idea what it was that Alfred wanted to have "transferred to Gotham General, ASAP", but refrained from interrupting him.

Then Alfred finally hung up and turned towards him, smiling brightly. "Master Richard, how wonderful to see you."

Dick smiled gently, "Hey Alf." Motioning towards the corner, where two large bags with his stuff were waiting, he began the conversation they knew they needed to have. "I guess I don't have much saying in further proceedings?" Straight to the point.

Alfred crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. Sipping at his soup slowly, Dick waited until the older man was done checking him over, carefully and thoroughly like everything Alfred did.

"Master Damian told you about Master Jason's injury?"

"He said he had been shot and is not allowed to move due to his drainage." Dick had a bad feeling he knew where this was going.

"He wanted to stop a bank robbery in Gotham's East Side. Nothing complicated, but according to Master Bruce, he was sloppy and slow."

Dick sighed, "Are you telling me he was tired because he took care of me?"

Alfred nodded, and the icy feeling in Dick's chest intensified. Of course he had noticed the dark circles under Jay's eyes, and of course he had tried to argue with him about commuting between Gotham and Blüdhaven, but Jason was stubborn and Dick was lacking his usual eloquence when he was crouching above the toilet.

Alfred was a clever bastard, Richard realized. First he had send over Damian, knowing perfectly well that he would blurt things out without regard to anyone's feelings, shocking him thoroughly, and then he was guilt tripping him. All to be on the safe side, in case someone might actually dare to object to Alfie. Which nobody did, ever.

"Maybe I could –"

"Please don't try to bargain with me, Master Dick. You cannot stay here for a few more days, because your elevator is broken you are in no condition to climb the stairs."

"I don't _need_ to climb the stairs tomorrow or the day after tomorrow."

"And what are you planning to eat, if you don't go shopping? There is nothing edible in this flat."

...technical knockout. There was no arguing against Alfred's points, and he didn't dare admit that he just wouldn't eat anything, because then Alfred would just knock him unconscious and drag him all the way to Gotham to force-feed him.

Clever bastard.

"I have already spoken with your doctors in Blüdhaven. They are sending your file over to Gotham General as we speak."

"I don't think any of the doctors are working now, Alfie..." Dick said pensively as he glanced out of the window, into the dark.

Alfred allowed himself a small, vicious smile. "They are _now_."

Dick couldn't help but grin – Resistance against Alfred was futile. He was going home.

-tbc-


	13. Chapter 12

_Medical terms will be explained at the end of the chapter_

LIFELINES

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jason was watching some crappy daily soap when they entered his room. His gaze flickered from Tim, who was pushing Dick's wheelchair, to Bruce, and for a second there was a glimmer of _something._ Something Dick couldn't decipher, but wanted to believe was surprise, positive surprise.

Then Jason settled for the easy way and turned to his big brother and the wheelchair. "Now you're being melodramatic, Dickiebird."

"Hospital law," Dick sighed, obviously annoyed, and motioned at the drainage that was fixed to Jason's bed. "How are you doing?"

"Fine. I'd be out of here if Leslie wasn't so damn scary."

Dick laughed. "I definitely like this side of the patient/visitor- thing more."

"Well," Jason said at last, turning towards the other two family members, "to what do I owe this honor?"

Bruce came forth and handed Jason some files before he pulled up a chair and sat beside Dick. Excited like a child on Christmas, Dick's heart started to beat faster. On the drive to the hospital, Bruce had already briefed him about the new antics of "Joseph Raleigh". Luckily, Tim had been skimming through the files and Bruce had paid attention to the road, and no one had seen his big, fat grin.

"Your man from Blüdhaven just smuggled an incredible amount of heroin into Gotham."

Dick and Jason looked at each other, and Jason spoke up. "So he did leave 'haven. Dick, did you keep an eye on the police reports?" Aww, it was so cute how they tried to include him.

"Nothing in there, at least nothing connecting to his usual aliases." Like hell he would write another set of them if he didn't had to. "I also checked the news, he seems to be gone."

Bruce and Jason nodded before launching into the details about Gotham, and Dick leaned back and let his mind wander, because.. really, he knew the details better than they did. He knew that there were twelve newly dug graves in multiple Gotham cemeteries, displaying twelve of the aliases Joseph Raleigh had taken up over the last two years, all a bit changed thanks to a simple logarithm. It wasn't 'Matt Carr' but 'Mattie Carr'. Not 'René Gaston' but 'Renée Gaston', etc. As cheap as the gender bender was, it was functional. 'Charleen Evert' would not appear if Bruce typed 'Charles Evert' into any of the databases they usually used, Dick had made sure of it; either the different spellings of the name or semantic clues like gender would sort them out.

And Dick also knew that they would do the math; the amount of heroin was just as much as would fit into a coffin. Deep down in the earth, where it would be safe until "Raleigh" could be sure that nobody would link anything to him when he decided to dug it out again.

The rest of the plan was simple: let them dig out grave after grave, a task you couldn't do alone. Symbolic value aside, it was an awesome way to keep them occupied. Digging out a grave would take them a whole night. They couldn't just do that twelve nights in row, they needed to let time lapse so nobody would become suspicious (sad truth: cemeteries in Gotham were not a good place for the final rest).

Turning his attention back to the two, Dick allowed himself a sly smile when he listened to their next words.

"So we will dig them out, at some point we'll find it, and hopefully along with some clues."

"Exactly. We'll start with East Hollow Cemetery. When will you be fit again?"

"Walking? In two days, Leslie said," Jason informed Bruce shrugging, "Digging out a grave? Maybe in a week."

This got Bruce suspicious: "Why, is there more than just the nicked lung? Does it hurt?"

_Careful_, Dick thought, cheering inwardly, _we're almost able to see the worried Dad._

There wouldn't be any traces left of Joseph Raleigh, because there wouldn't be any drugs. In about an hour, a cargo block full of heroin would be loaded onto the 'wrong' ship and jettisoned somewhere in the sea. Really, the stuff some people did for money.

A hand landed on his shoulder, making him flinch. It was just Tim, who reminded him of his chemo date.

Waving goodbye to Jay and Bruce, who didn't pay any attention because they were arguing over the term 'bedridden', Tim wheeled Dick out of the room.

"What's up with you?" Dick asked after a while, when Tim stayed silent.

"Oh, nothing. It's just..." Tim sighed deeply. "Don't kill me, okay? I just can't get used to the fact that you and Jason are best buddies now."

"What's the problem?"

"I don't trust him."

Dick motioned for Tim to elaborate, barely concealing how glad he was that he was finally addressing the issue.

"Well, you know.." his little brother was obviously having difficulties expressing what was going through his mind. That was good; Dick could use this shapelessness to his advantage later on. "Did you forget how often he tried to hurt us? Or that he kills?"

"I didn't. But at the same time _I_ can't just ignore that he helped me. _A lot_."

"Heaven knows for what reason. It's as if he's a different person."

And that was just too perfect. Dick slammed the brakes of his wheelchair, made Tim walk into him with a grunt and turned around to face him. "Tim. The Jason _you_ got to know is a different person. You never knew him before he died."

Tim seemed to consider what he said, but still pushed the wheelchair further. "Oh yeah? Tell me about him. Bruce never does."

"Oh, he was rash, and rude. Swearing all the time. Shortest temper I ever saw." Tim was snorting behind him, so he hurried. "Terrified that he might not be good enough for Bruce. Desperately trying to get his approval, _everyone_'s approval, really. And guess what? After a while, it worked out."

"And then he died."

"And came back. To find that his death hadn't even left a scar on Bruce."

"That's not true, Dick! You know exa -"

"I know, but surely not because _Bruce_ showed me." Dick turned his head to look into Tim's eyes. "We all demanded for him to go back to normal, as if nothing had happened; but at the same time, we took his place by taking you in. Of course he snapped."

"That doesn't justify the killing."

"No, it doesn't." Dick sighed. This was the crux of it. "But maybe it helps you understand all that anger."

"And it doesn't explain his behaviour towards you."

"Oh, that one's easy. He can't afford to lose me, I'm the only link to his past he has left." – Tim was about to protest – "Oh, okay," Dick snorted, "the only one who doesn't want him to go to prison or isn't dead loyal to that person."

They entered the oncology unit. Dick could feel his little brother tensing up involuntary. "Okay, even if that all is true. How am I supposed to behave towards him? He _hates _me."

"Just be nice to him," Dick said flippantly, waving towards the nurses, "most of it is up to Bruce, anyway."

When a nurse came up to them, Tim shook his head and smiled. "You got us all figured out, huh?"

"You have no idea, Timothy," Dick said in an admittedly creepy way, "you have no idea."

####### ################ ##################

Life at the manor changed when Dick moved in again.

Of course his family tried to hide it from him, but he knew nonetheless. He had lived with Bruce long enough to notice that he was returning home from work earlier, and he knew that Alfred usually did not do the laundry, ironing or sewing in front of the TV in the living room, which had turned into Dick's preferred sleeping place.

Dick was offended at first that the old butler tried to fool him with such a transparent lie, but then again he was glad for the company. He was sleeping most of the time anyway, but it was nice to have someone there when he woke up. There was no need to strike up a conversation with Alfred; they just enjoyed each other's company in a comfortable silence, until the low rumbling of the television lulled Dick back to sleep again.

The pattern was easy: Alfred stayed with him till Tim came back from school at around noon, and then Tim watched over him until Bruce returned from work. Watching him, of course, without actually _stating_ that they didn't dare leaving Richard alone for too long, but with makeshift lies and pretenses about why they needed to spend time with him. It was beyond adorable.

Tim's way of watching over him was the cutest of all. After checking carefully if his big brother was awake and well, the family genius dropped down beside him on the couch and announced that he needed help with his homework. The first time he did that, Dick was sure he was hallucinating thanks to fever or morphine or whatever; the day _Tim_ needed _his_ help with chemistry was the day the world would end.

Richard would have blown Tim's cover if it wasn't for the amusement he felt when Tim was desperately stammering while trying to think of some reply to Dick's question of _what_ it was he didn't understand.

The only thing that marred this temporary family idyll was Damian's utter refusal to even be in the same room as him. Richard had expected difficult behaviour – after all, Damian _hated_ change – but this was just a bit too harsh. His little brother wasn't talking to him, avoided being in a room with him except for meals neither of them were able to avoid, and joined Alfred or Bruce on trips to the hospital only after Bruce basically ordered him to.

The rest of the family was damn angry with their youngest, but Dick could relate. After all, he was still the only one who had gotten the small bird to open up to him; he knew how Damian ticked. And he knew that Damian actually did care, but couldn't show it. So he kept watch over his big brother while he slept.

Dick had noticed it a few days after he had returned to the manor. His hunch about developing a fever had been right, and his senses had been blurred the first nights so he hadn't been able to grasp the meaning of the light footsteps he heard every time he was waking up. Only after the fever had vanished could he match the footsteps up with the crack of light that fell into his room when they disappeared – Damian was trying to leave without drawing attention.

Damian didn't know that he knew, and Dick played his game because he wanted Damian to come to terms with everything in his own pace. He only hoped he'd still be around when his little brother finally did.

############# ################ ##############

"So, when you were swinging back and forth on that trapeze, did you never get seasick?"

"I hate you."

"And sometimes you even land on the trapeze with your belly, doesn't that make you wanna throw up?"

"You were a lot nicer when you had to lie down."

Jason grinned smugly and went in for the kill.

"Do you think I could take my meal from the cafeteria into this room? I heard the steak is pretty good."

Dick turned a sickly shade of green, and grasped his bucket more tightly. "Mind over matter, mind over matter, ..." he muttered weakly.

"And you know what's the best part? Since the steak is so raw, the blood mixes with the greasy gravy and -"

-and Richard gave up and tossed his cookies into the bucket. Very noisily too, but that didn't hinder Jason from leaning over and grabbing the fifty bucks that served as stake to their little bet.

########### ################## ###################

"Hello, I'm Karen. Nurse Keating sent me to insert your transurethral cathe –"

"No! Never."

Bruce and the young nurse who introduced herself as Karen looked at Dick, taken aback.

"Don't come near me with that thing..." Dick threatened and tightened the blankets around him, looking at the hermetically sealed catheter with undisguised disgust.

Karen smiled gently, obviously used to arguments like this one. "Mr. Grayson, this is really just standard procedure. Since we don't know how your body will take the chemo this time – "

"Go away!"

"Richard," Bruce stepped in, half amused and half startled by his son's strong reaction, "don't be rude."

"Go away, _please,_" Dick pressed out annoyed, "don't force me to strangle you with my IV line."

There was a certain poetry in killing somebody with the IV line that contained the chemo mixture, Bruce mused as he watched how his eldest crossed his arms and glared at the nurse, who was laughing quietly.

"You know," he started in a vain attempt to make his pigheaded protégé see, "you'll need one of those at some point, anyway."

"Et tu Brutus?" Richard muttered with a hurt expression but didn't relent. Bruce felt for him, but really he was just delaying something he had no choice in. A catheter wasn't the most elegant thing, but considering the speed with which Dick's body was shutting down, it was simply necessary.

"Dick, you keep passing out during chemo. You _will_ make a mess someday, and that will be even more embarrassing."

"Can we not discuss this, please?!" Richard turned a deep shade of red and huffed indignantly. Then he turned to the nurse again. "Over my dead body. Go away."

Nurse Karen shrugged, grinning, and then waved her goodbyes and left. Bruce stared at his son flabbergasted and shook his head theatrically.

"One would think," he said when she was surely out of hearing range, "that you have been injured enough to be used to urethral catheters."

"Yeah, when I'm unconscious!" Dick argued, slowly coming back to his old pallor.

Three hours later the chemo administration was over. It hadn't been a pleasant one again, but Richard had managed to stay awake from end-to-end, even though after a while Bruce had wished he wouldn't. He had left the room about half an hour ago to give Dick some time to himself, and entered again only to find that Dick was still lying in his hospital bed, just like he had left him.

"Dick?" he asked carefully, stepping closer.

A shudder went through the blanket pile, a low moan following. Dick's face was ashen when Bruce had made it to the bed, and red-rimmed eyes focused on him only slowly. Worriedly, Bruce crouched down beside the bed, lowering himself to the same level as his son.

"Chum? Everything okay?"

"Hey..." Richard greeted him weakly. Bruce didn't like the hoarse and toneless voice at all. "Do you think Karen would accept an apology?"

The older man raised an eyebrow in surprise, a cold feeling spread through his insides when he understood where this was going. "I think we're about to go home now, Dick. You can 'apologize' next time."

Richard could only keep his eyes open with obvious difficulties and looked at his surrogate-father with dilated pupils. "I think I'd rather stay here tonight..."

The chilly feeling in Bruce's chest intensified at his son's words. This wasn't good; Dick hated the hospital and usually would do everything he could to get out. Him asking to stay in one was... Bruce didn't want to think about _what_ that meant.

"We don't have to leave just now," he argued therefore, "or we could ask for a wheelchair if you're not up to walking..."

He trailed off when Dick lost another shade of colour and curled into an even tighter ball. "Don't talk about moving..." he whispered and closed his eyes.

Swallowing hard, Bruce squeezed his hand and nodded slowly, giving in to Dick's request. Promising to set everything up, he left the room. Outside, he leaned against the closed door and tried to compose himself.

Dick not wanting to move was just... wrong. It had been strange to see him sleeping so much at home, but this now was so unlike the acrobat's usual attitude... His words from earlier came into Bruce's mind; '_Over my dead body'_. He shuddered and chided himself._ Don't be dramatic. He's tired, that's all._

Pushing the depressing thoughts away, Bruce started to head down the corridor to search for a nurse or a doctor to temporarily hospitalize his son.

############# ############### #############

Dick stared at the wig in Roy's hand without giving away any emotions.

"You didn't..." he said after a few seconds, after Roy waved it around enthusiastically and Wally started to vibrate in anticipation. The long, golden locks of the wig caught the light of the sun and twinkled mockingly.

"You don't like it?" Wally asked way too excited and started to rummage around in his backpack. "_That'sokaywegotmore!_"

Only a second later he pushed a raven haired, curled Afro wig and a ginger bob into Dick's arms.

"We didn't know which one you already had, so we bought many," Roy explained with a smug grin and then leaned over to place the blonde one over Richard's head.

Dick buried his head in his hands, faking embarrassment, but the other two had seen his broad smile clearly.

"He loves it!" Wally shouted happily and the two redheads highfived. "I told him we needed a ginger one, but Roy was afraid of what you might do with yourself if you had one... _YouknowwhatImean!_"

"We have the necessary hair products too, of course. Seeing as this is still an all-male- household.."

Dick stared at the large box full of brushes, hair clips and hairspray and wasn't able to keep his expression serious any longer. "If I still had eyebrows, I would raise them now in a dismissive manner."

"Which we wouldn't see," Wally appeared beside Richard on the bed and started to brush the golden mane on Dick's head into a presentable hairstyle, "because your new bangs are in the way."

Dick only answered by throwing the Afro over Wally's head and the ginger wig in Roy's direction. "Braid me, honey!"

Five minutes later they were all seated on the bed in a circle and brushed each other's 'hair'.

"You are reaally good at this," Wally marveled.

"I have a daughter," Roy shrugged off, for once modest. "Do you like it, Dick?" He held a mirror up for Richard to observe his new, skillfully braided and pulled-up headdress.

"It's pretty," he said unconvinced, "but something's missing. I want pink ribbons."

Wally and Roy looked at each other puzzled. "Damn, we didn't think of those.."

##

Tim opened his bedroom door to find an excitedly twitching speedster in front of it.

"Wally...?" he asked warily, not trusting this new situation in the least.

"Dude, _how'sitgoing_?" Wally greeted in high-speed, "Do you have pink hair ribbons? Dick said you might!"

The perplexed expression he got after that must have been answer enough, for Wally shrugged and was gone almost immediately. Tim didn't even try to understand what had just happened.

#

A few minutes later, he knocked at the door to Dick's old-and-now-new room with a box of ribbons in his hand. He could hear voices through the wood.

"_Dude, I can totally see now why chicks do that. It's so mesmerizing, I could do this all day."_

"_I know, right? Roy, do you want me to pull it up?"_

"_Hand me one of the hair clips, please."_

"_Wally, open the door, would you?"_

Instantly, Wally appeared at the door and Tim was able to see his big brother (special emphasis on 'big'), Roy Harper and of course Wally West, all with girly wigs on their heads in wicked hairstyles.

"Uh, I.. uh, I found some..."

Unusually serious, Wally took the box out of Tim's hands and said in a threatening voice: "We won't tell if you won't," before he slammed the door shut in Tim's face.

Moments later, Tim banged at the door frantically, calling "They were Steph's! _They were Steph's!_" over the boisterous laughter of the three original Teen Titans.

############### ################# #############

Jason actually flinched when Leslie leaned back and grabbed the aspiration needle she needed to perform the bone marrow biopsy.

"Ohhh my God, Dick. It's_ huge!_?"

"That's... what... she said," Richard managed to press out between clenched teeth.

How the idiot was still able to joke around was beyond Jason. The sight in front of him was appalling, and at some point he didn't know who was squeezing whose hand anymore.

With clinical precision Leslie pushed the large needle into his brother's hip, slowly but steady, inch after inch. Dick's eyes were squeezed shut, but a slight shudder went through his body ever so often.

Then Leslie took out the _even longer_ trephine needle, and Jason's stomach turned.

"You're kidding, right?" neither Leslie nor Dick said anything, but the doc shot him a warning glare.

"It's the biopsy needle," Leslie said in explanation, and his brother nodded without saying anything. He had done this before, after all.

When Leslie pushed the new needle in, Jason ripped his gaze away and forced himself to concentrate on something else... which was not exactly easy in a surgical ward, where everything was functional.

Dick sniffled and buried his face deeper into the pillows.

"Why can't this shit be done under full sedation?" Jason asked, and didn't like at all how his voice sounded like a little boy's.

"It's possible to do it," Leslie explained as she twisted the needle with a skillful flick of the wrist and then started to extract it again, slowly. "But Dick's blood pressure is too low today, and we really can't wait much longer for the results..."

She trailed of, and motioned with her head to a portable EKG and defibrillator, which were positioned just so that Dick couldn't see them.

_Oh_.

Out of reflex, Jason's grip shifted and he felt for his brother's pulse. It was weak but racing, and Bruce's medical training had been as thorough as to touch on anesthesia. Most of the sedatives that induced complete unconsciousness also induced hypoventilation. A mixture of unsteady breathing and low blood pressure could ultimately lead to heart failure and hypoxia, which again could result in all kinds of fucked up things.

"Okay, we're done," Leslie said suddenly, definitely more cheerful, and Jason blinked in surprise at the small vial that was now filled with a ruby fluid. Dick had relaxed somewhat, and pried his eyes open slowly.

"Move as little as possible for the next 20 minutes," Leslie instructed as she applied some bandages and gauze over the small puncture site. Then she turned to Jason. "Okay, Jason. Your turn!"

Jason swallowed hard, freezing immediately.

"Please change into a hospital gown. It's so nice of you to contribute to science." The doc motioned at the seconds medical table on her left. "Same conditions as Richard, if I got it right?"

"Fuck, no!" Jason shouted and stood up, backing away from the two of them who were both grinning sardonically, Dick even a bit broader. He rummaged around in his pockets, then slammed the banknotes onto a cupboard beside the door. "This shit is so not worth fifty bucks!"

########### ########### ######

They were talking about Tim's math teacher when Damian stormed past them without so much as looking at Richard.

Tim shook his head in indignation. "And to think that you are still defending him..."

Dick smiled apologetically, snuggling deeper into his cushions. "He's only ten."

"And already behaves like an asshole. What do you think will happen when he turns twenty?"

"He's afraid."

Tim looked at him doubtingly, "I think he's just a jerk."

Dick decided to finally act. He had been looking for an opportunity to get Damian and Tim closer to each other, but never found one thanks to Damian's avoidance. Basically the whole thing depended on Tim, anyway. He was the one Richard had enough influence on, and he was the one to fulfill the new 'big bro' role.

"He's confused and doesn't understand what's happening to me. Do you remember that book about leukemia you were searching for yesterday?"

Tim nodded, groaning, "I still haven't found it... the library is going to kill me, it was a brand new edition!"

"It's in Damian's room. Under his bed."

He knew, because he had put it there two days ago, when they were both in school.

Tim stared at him incredulously before he got angry. "Oh, that little-"

"_Tim,_" Dick interrupted impatiently; he couldn't wait till Tim made the connection himself. "Don't you get it? He's worried, he's trying to understand! The only person he trusts is sick and he doesn't have anybody else."

It was far-fetched of course, he didn't think that Damian only trusted _him_, but he needed to dramatize things to get Tim's big-brother-senses to tingle. From the pensive look the other was displaying, things seemed to work.

"Maybe you should talk to him," Dick said therefore, and, to give Tim the last nudge: "It would mean a lot to me."

His brother nodded unwillingly and sighed, "I will regret this...", before he got up and walked up the stairs.

Dick leaned back with a satisfied grin, which only broadened when screaming ensued above him. He could make out Damian's voice ("I did not take this book!") and Tim's ("It's right there!"), and after a while they quieted down. Since there was no door slamming and feet stomping, Dick concluded that they were talking in a normal volume now (or one of the was dead, which was a big possibility, too).

They would need time to accept each other, but at least now they were aware of the other. He had managed to plant the seeds into Tim's head about responsibility and living up to his role as big brother, and he was sure that Damian would sooner or later realize the severity of his condition.

They only needed time, but that was okay. _They_ had it.

-tbc-

**medical explanations:**

**drainage: **the task of a drainage is simply to get stuff out of where it shouldn't be. Basically just a container with tubes that are connected to the respective body part. Fluids like blood or gasses like oxygen tend to get into cavities after injuries and prevent the healing process. Very often used after knee operations for example, because blood tends to flow into the hollows of the joint.

**Transurethral catheter:** the catheter that is supposed to collect urine. The tube needs to be inserted into the urethra to reach the bladder, which makes it a pretty uncomfortable procedure. (Which is absolutely necessary and might spare many many patients the embarrassment of wetting their beds, so stop moping around, patients of this world!)

**Bone marrow biopsy: **A **biopsy** is the procedure of taking a tiny part of tissue of an organ out of the patient's body, to be able to make all kinds of tests with it. A bone marrow biopsy is therefore the procedure of taking out a part of the bone marrow. Usually done at the hip bone. It's tricky, because bone marrow tissue grows _inside_ of the bones. First, an **aspiration needle** is inserted that penetrates the bone until it reaches the interior cavity where the marrow is. Liquid bone marrow is aspirated, and then the** trephine needle** joins the game (about 15cm long!), which is longer than the aspiration needle and gets out a part of the solid bone marrow. The procedure takes about 15 minutes and is pretty painful – local anesthetics are always used, though they only numb the surface. Often there is a full sedation, but I didn't find any clues as to when and when not – I therefore guess it heavily depends on the patient's state or the sadistic tendencies of the doctor. (if anyone knows better, please tell me!)

**hypoventilation**: breathing too little and/or too shallow

**hypoxia:** the state of having not enough oxygen in your blood, thus your body. Very bad, because cells only work with oxygen. Hypoxia rapidly results in conditions like brain damage of heart attacks.

#####

_I added a special appearance by Wally and Roy, I just couldn't resist XD. I love them so much, and I really wanted to have them involved more. But it's not easy to squeeze so many people into a story and give them actual roles, instead of general moping around. They probably won't appear again, but honestly, writing their part was the most awesome part so far :D_


	14. Chapter 13

_Medical termini will be explained at the end of the chapter._

LIFELINES

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At first he didn't even react to the words, just stared ahead into the face of his oncologist and proceeded to listen.

Then, slowly, the realization of what was just told to him dawned. First he lost track of the doctor's words, then his mind kept repeating _'palliative care palliative care palliative care'_, and finally, it hit him. _Panic._

He was going to die.

It was as if his mind went offline, repeating _'palliative care palliative care palliative care'_ like a broken record, while his body took over and reminded him it was still there with full force.

His heart rate increased, every beat painful in his chest, loud in his ears, drowning out the words the doc kept pouring over him_._ His vision blurred, even though he was pretty sure that he wasn't crying, just not able anymore to process what was happening in front of him.

He was going to die.

Maybe he should start to breathe again, at some point (_when?_) he had stopped taking in the next rush of air. But his body declined, as if trying to tell him that there was no point in it anyway.

Because he was going to die.

He was going to die. _Die_. He was dying.

He was going to die _die die die-_

Stop.

_Breathe in. Out... Good._

It was a stumbling, shuddering breath, but a breath nonetheless. Immediately he regained control over his body, and the voice in his mind (which sounded very much like Bru- no, _Batman_) seemed to wake up the rest of his brain functions.

Batman's training was kicking in. _Analyze_. No room for emotions, get a grip.

_Think. Listen._

Listen, right. This was important. And listening was a lot easier than thinking. Closing his eyes for a moment to calm down, Dick smiled apologetically at the blur which was taking the shape of a human being again. Ten minutes, he promised himself. _In ten minutes you can break down._ He pushed away his emotions.

"Sorry, I... I just... could you _repeta_…uh, repeat that?" _Huh, not so good with words today, Boy Wonder? _

While his doc smiled gently and probably pitied him, Richard found a wonderful excuse to deflect what was happening to him by puzzling why the hell he needed to translate the words in his mind into English. Apparently, his mind had started to channel Romanian. That hadn't happened to him since his first year as Robin.. Well, _c__ă__cat*._

_Concentrate!_

The doc had stood up and sat beside him on the couch – too close for Dick's liking. He needed distance right now, facts. Human contact might just topple him over into all that he was trying to keep at bay right now. _Breathe._

"You see, the bone marrow biopsy Dr Thompkins did showed that your marrow is starting to produce mutated promyeloid cells again. Cancerous cells."

"Relapse, then," Richard tried to clarify, and he was surprised how his voice could sound so firm while his hands were shaking so badly.

The doc (what was his name? Dick couldn't remember, but he _never_ forgot anyone's name. It was like it was wiped out the moment his mind had understood what 'palliative care' meant...) nodded slowly and patted his patient's arm... Dick flinched away, shuddering at the touch.

"Relapse, yes. This means that the immunotherapy failed, and the chemotherapy is not having any effect on your condition."

_Say that again, asshole_. Even though Dick knew exactly what the doctor meant, he still wanted to strangle him. In his opinion, the chemo had had enough effect on his condition,_ thank you_.

_(That was all for nothing, by the way.)_

_Listen!_

"The only solution that could guarantee a cure would be a bone marrow transplantat, but there is no donor available. Further chemo might bring you into remission, but this will only be temporary if there is no transplant."

The doc had laid a hand over his, and Dick really, _really_, wished he would have stayed in Blüdhaven with the unemotional and detached Dr. Flores.

"So," he concluded therefore, staring into nothing, "it's palliative care now. A question of time."

"If you wish, we can proceed with extreme chemo and hope for the best. Every donor who registers from now on will be tested for mutual compatibility; maybe you'll get lucky."

Yeah, sure. And Batman dresses as Santa Claus and climbs through chimneys.

"What's the alternative... If there is any?" Dick voice lost firmness with every word, he was losing it again. He needed to get out of here.

"The alternative is palliative care," the doc said and handed him a pile of documents, a brochure on top that showed an old, wrinkled woman, smiling while her grandchildren played on her hospital bed. The heading said _"There is something good in every day" _and Dick almost choked at how much the universe seemed to hate him today.

"We will keep on administering a smaller concentration of chemo medicine that will prolong your life but won't affect you as severely as a normal chemo dose does. Pain medication and everything you may need is included, of course. You may choose if you want to stay in the hospital or return home and be with your family."

Dick felt the tears threatening to make it past his resolve. The next step would be to ask the doc how much time he had left, but the words wouldn't leave his lips. He didn't want to know, he wasn't ready. He wasn't fucking ready for this shit.

With a deep intake, Richard shot up. "I need a moment," he said and headed out, not waiting for his counterpart to reply. Storming out of the door, through the corridor and into one of the men's restroom stalls, Dick wasn't able to block out two things: Batman's voice, telling him to _keep calm_, and a picture before his inner eye of his parents falling as if in slow motion, mouths open in a silent scream.

His knees gave out and he landed in a boneless heap on the cold tiles, the thin wall against his back the only support. He was staring into nothing, his parents _falling falling falling_, until he closed his eyes, swallowed drily, and finally allowed the emotions to come.

-tbc-

_*căcat = Romanian, "shit"._

**medical explanations:**

**palliative care:** means that healthcare and medicine is administered in order to relieve or prevent pain and suffering. Every pain medication has a 'palliative effect', but the term 'palliative care' is usually used for the treatment patients with incurable conditions undergo. It's all about alleviating pain and the prolongation of life in a justifiable state, without hope for a recovery. Often, psychological help is given too, to help accepting the fact of death. Palliative care can happen in a hospital, a hospice or at home, with or without medical trained staff.

**promyeloid cell: **also "hematopoietic stem cell", is the multipotent stem cell of the bone marrow (=myeloid). It's the progenitor of all the blood cells (erythroytes, leukocytes and thromboctyes) and their respective conspecies (leukocytes have many of those). In leukemia, something goes wrong with these promyeloid cells, either in their own development or its further development into the blood cells (depending of the type of leukemia... there are quite a lot!), and the undeveloped or mutates cells spread.


	15. Chapter 14

_Please read the very important A/N at the bottom!_

LIFELINES

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The moment he had stepped out of the hospital, equipped with medicine, prescriptions and documents, things began to feel unreal. The sun was shining, warm rays touching his face as he blinked up surprised, feeling detached from the unusually mild December air.

The numbness had started as soon as his short breakdown was over. He had bawled like a baby, cried everything out of his system for the first time in what felt like an eternity, and then stopped just like that. Numbness had spread through his chest, into his limbs, and at last into his mind.

It stayed there, enabling him to listen to the next hour of apocalyptic messages from his doctor, make the necessary decisions and sign the documents.

He wouldn't stay in the hospital and wait for the end; that much was out of question. And he wouldn't undergo extreme chemo again for nothing. In the end, he settled for oral chemo: a few pills every day containing a low concentration, which he could take at home and deal with the consequences there.

The numbness stayed with him when he walked through the hospital corridors and it muted his thoughts, making him feel like he was packed in cotton wool – nothing could touch or bother him. It was a good feeling, better than the panic or the desperation he had felt earlier, which were now, frankly, a somewhat ridiculous memory.

As he blinked into the warm rays of the sun in the middle of the parking lot, the feeling of detachedness joined the numbness. The sun's rays couldn't reach him through the cotton wool, and he couldn't find a reason to step out of his cocoon.

Things were just so _unreal_.

Sun in December? His wayward brother waving at him, with a _grin _plastered on his face? He was dying of cancer, at only 23?

He made his way over to his old Lexus, smiling at how his feet didn't seem to touch the ground. Unreal. Time was suddenly stretching- how ridiculous.

He felt like he was in a dream.

###### ############## #############

The feeling wouldn't leave. Days after he had gotten the message he still hadn't told anyone. Jason had been in a crappy mood when he'd picked him up on that fateful day, and Dick had complied to uncomplicated silence only too willingly.

It was not that Richard didn't want to tell them, but that he found he couldn't. Something in him had changed in that small office, and he was trying hard to get back on track, but to no avail. He couldn't shake off the detachedness, the dream-like state he seemed to live in.

Time, his enemy in general now, worked differently all of sudden. Out of his control. There was no consistency he could grasp; the intervals of seconds, minutes and hours didn't apply to him anymore.

More than once, he found himself standing in a room, in front of a mirror, lying on a couch, engaged in a conversion with another person, without knowing how he had arrived at that specific place, or how much time he had spent there already. His family noticed, of course, but didn't dare ask about it. A few times he had been shocked out of his reveries by a cool hand on his forehead or a subtle shake of his shoulders.

He fell back into his old role after that; smiling reassuringly and assuring that he was 'fine, just tired'. It wasn't even a lie, for he was tired no matter how much he slept. He was tired from doing nothing, and he fell asleep and woke up hours later, even more exhausted. Was that a side effect of the drugs he was taking? His family chose to believe that, and why not? It wasn't important, but it added to his confusion about reality. At times, he even wondered if he had been sleepwalking and woke up at random places, not helping in the least to bring order to his confusion about unreal reality.

How could he tell them what his doc had told him if he himself wasn't even sure it really happened? If he woke up on the couch without memory of arriving at said couch – how could he know he hadn't dreamed everything else?

Watching his family during dinner made the veil that separated him painfully clear. Tim was telling them about some teacher of his, angry and pissed. Though Dick listened carefully, he wasn't able to grasp what could have brought his little brother into such a state.

He didn't get the grade he deserved, okay. Was that really that important? Grades? School? Dick tried to remember if there had been a time when those things had mattered to him too, but he couldn't comprehend the feelings that were stirred up thus. They were displayed in front of him like a movie, a film he was watching, without actually touching it. He didn't know anymore how to penetrate the veil in his mind.

A hand waving in front of his eyes pulled him out of his thoughts; he flinched hard. Bruce pulled back his hand and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, you zoned out on us."

Dick blinked surprised and looked around, seeing how they all stared at him, waiting for him to say something.

"Uh, I was just... Tim, you were saying?"

Timmy exchanged a worried glance with Bruce, who frowned and touched Dick's forehead. Right, they thought he was sick. When he had come back a few days earlier from his last doctor's appointment and couldn't tell them the dates for his next chemo installments, they had concluded that he had gotten sick and the chemo was paused. Things had happened so fast that Dick hadn't interfered with their analysis. It wasn't a lie, since his temperature was actually above average.

"You're feverish."

"I'm fine. I just got lost in thought." Dick swatted the hand away and proceeded to poke the food on his plate unenthusiastically.

"Oh Dick, I'm so sorry," Tim suddenly said, and Richard looked up in surprise. "You are sick and have so many important things going on, and here we go complaining about school and work."

Tim looked positively heart-broken, and Dick felt a lump of guilty feelings swelling in his chest.

"It's okay, Timbo, it's just.." _I'm dying._ "I'm really tired." Definitely not a lie.

Thankfully, his mobile phone rang just in that minute, giving him a wonderful excuse to leave the table and his full plate.

Barbara was updating him with issues about the master plan; Dick was hardly listening, and when he had finally made it upstairs and fell onto his bed, she was already calling his name in an impatient manner.

"_Dick, are you even listening!?"_

"Yeah Babs, sure." Dick stared at the ceiling from under half-closed eyes and tried to remember why he should care about what she told him. "Why are you worrying so much?"

"_Why am I – Dick,_ listen_. They changed their pace. Bruce already plans to have Red Robin and Robin helping them with the graves as soon as the two of them finish the Penguin gig next week."_

"So what?"

"_They'll be finished much earlier than we thought! It's not just Red Hood and Batman anymore. I still don't know the next step of your plan."_

"There is no next step. Everything's fine, Barbara."

He heard her gasp and curse and had to smile at that a little bit. She would start to insult him in a few seconds, and then begin to worry. There really wasn't a next step after the empty grave stage. Dick had made up several scenarios before –... he had made up several scenarios, but then decided to just drop it. Because he was tired and fed up with lying, sure, but also because Bruce would never expect it. Criminals didn't just _stop _– the easiest way of keeping Bruce occupied was with having him chase his own tail.

"_Talk to me, Dick. Something's up."_

Her mention of his name pulled him out of his thoughts, he must have zoned out on her while she was cursing and cussing.

"Nothing's up, I'm just tired. Everything is fine, Babs. It doesn't matter if they'll finish sooner than we expected." Because he was probably not around anymore, anyway.

"_Bullshit! Tell me wha-"_

"Thanks for calling, I need to hit the hay."

He hung up on her, something he had never done before, and shut off his phone.

####### ########## ##########

Dick remained in his zombie like state until, of all people, Damian found a way through to him.

His eyes snapped open with a flinch; what was left of his bat-reflexes had tingled and woken him up. He must have fallen asleep again some time this afternoon, and now a light touch at his neck had yanked him away from the blissful nothingness of his dreams.

In the dark, Dick could make out the silhouette of a child scurrying away noiselessly, and if it wasn't for the dim stripe of light that fell into his room when the door opened and closed again, he would have believed it to be a trick of his mind. But the short glimpse he had been given shone light onto dark blue PJs and raven hair.

"Damian?" Dick asked confusedly into the empty room, rubbing his sleepy eyes and slowly pulling himself up into a sitting position.

The clock on his bedside table told him it was two in the morning, too early for the birds and the bat to be home already. Except if something had happened, but Damian's fast movements rendered an injury unlikely, and after all, the boy was already wearing his PJs... Damian wasn't keen on being seen in such 'undignified garb'.

They had been planning on fighting Scarecrow tonight, Dick recalled with an unhappy sigh. Damian had probably gotten a lungful of fear gas and had been sent home early.

Nightmare, then.

Without hesitation Dick got up and made his way over towards Damian's room, pausing only for a short moment before knocking at the door gently. No answer, of course, so he carefully turned the knob and entered.

"Damian?" he whispered after closing the door, and his little brother gave an adorable act of waking up from a deep sleep.

"Grayson? What are you doing here?" he asked with arrogance, but the slight blush on his cheeks gave him away.

"Why have you been in my room?"

"That obviously was a dream. Go back to bed, Grayson." Damian huffed and turned away from him.

"That's what I had planned to say to you, actually," Dick said while he sat onto the soft bed, much to Damian's obvious annoyance.

"-tt-."

"Still not talking to me?"

"..."

"You know the last thing you said to me except for that wonderful conversation we are having right now was a comment about how it's no wonder that my 'dirty bloodline ends up being worthless'." He imitated Damian's accent while quoting him, and the assassin in front of him had at least the decency to flinch.

"..."

"And that was eight days ago."

When there was still no answer, Dick rolled his eyes and stood up again. His bed was calling again, and there was really nothing to gain from standing in a room he was clearly not wanted in.

"I'm sorry."

Dick halted, perplexed, the numbness in his mind retreating a step to make room for the rush of surprise from Damian's statement.

The boy sat up again but avoided looking into Dick's eyes. They had played that game before, Dick recalled; Damian needed someone but couldn't bring himself to ask for help. Happy to have finally reached his little brother, Dick sat back beside him again.

"Nightmare?" he asked and dared to bring a hand up against Damian's back, rubbing soft circles.

"-tt-," Damian growled predictably, "I don't have nightmares."

"Sure." Dick rolled his eyes, not caring if Damian was able to see it. "But you're not immune to Scarecrow's fear gas."

Damian winced at that, but didn't take advantage of the wonderful face-saver Dick was offering him.

"Oh, for the love of God.." Dick mumbled impatiently and just grabbed the surprised boy, pushing his face against his chest.

"Grayson," he protested, "unhand me!"

"Nope." Dick just proceeded to wrap his arms around him, including the flailing arms, much to Damian's horror.

"What are you doing, you imbecile?!"

"It's protocol," Dick simply repeated the boy's words from two months ago and hid his grin in the younger one's hair, who stopped struggling.

"Oh," Damian mumbled, at a loss for words, "really?"

"Of course, you can ask Alfred tomorrow."

"In that case, you're not doing it right."

Dick had to suppress a laugh when Damian 'corrected' him by crawling onto his lap (without letting go, of course) and then relaxing against him, face buried in the fabric of his shirt.

Slowly, he started to rub the boy's back again, and, tentatively, Damian hugged him back. "It's okay, kiddo. It was just a dream."

"Fear gas induced hallucination," Damian objected.

"Right. They show you your worst fears, as ridiculously as they are," he recalled his own painful clashes with the Scarecrow. "They aren't real."

"So.." Damian started, in a rare, small voice, "you're not going to die of this?"

Dick's blood turned into ice immediately. _Ohhh, come on. _"Uh, I.. uh.."

He didn't know what to say. Shell-shocked, he froze, his hands stopping their movements automatically and the bile rising in his throat.

Shit. _Shit, shit, shit_, what was he supposed to say now?

Almost in an exact copy of what happened after he had stormed out of the doctor's office ten days ago, his mind and feelings took a metaphorical step back and the veil returned, thicker this time. Only then did it finally dawn on Richard that the daze he had been living in during the last few days had been nothing but repression – a trick of his mind to protect him from a truth he couldn't cope with yet.

_Woah._ Damn his detective skills, he still wasn't so sure if he was ready for it _now._

For the fact that he was, indeed, dying.

Dick swallowed thickly, returning to the situation at hand in a rush that made his head spin. Damian was still in his arms, but tense now – he had noticed the change in demeanor instantly, the sudden shaking, the lack of breathing.

"...Grayson?" he asked worriedly, trying to pull back.

Richard only strengthened his hold, afraid of looking into his brother's eyes. He wasn't ready to face this, to look at the kid he was going to leave behind.

This thought alone brought tears to his eyes, and with a long, shaky breath, Dick tried to regain his composure. Damian was still waiting for an answer.

"I.." he began with a raspy voice, almost unable to speak past the lump in his throat, "I don't know, Dami. It's nothing I can decide."

He felt terrible, guilt was rising in his chest, along with so many other feelings. What a coward he had become, lying to his baby brother while he knew the truth perfectly.

"But-" Damian started, but Dick cut him off fast. He needed to get out of here, away from Damian, who had stiffened considerably.

"Okay, protocol says you have to go back to sleep now and have some awesome dream in which you are Superman or something like that."

Damian stared at him as if he had just grown a second head, trying to decide if he was still suspicious or already scandalized. Obviously he couldn't decide, so he settled for his trademark scowl. Not strong enough anymore to lift the muscular boy up, Dick shoved him off, grinning, displaying an easiness he didn't feel.

Damian landed on the mattress with his usual annoyed expression, and finally drew the blankets around his body with a glare at Dick, who was still grinning like a fool but retreating, slowly and steady.

He heard Damian's 'Good Night' when he left the room, but didn't trust his voice anymore to answer.

By the time he had made it back to his own room, the prickling behind his eyes had become painful, and the sound his door lock made when he shut out the outside world was awful close to the sound of a snapping wire.

His parents were falling again before his eyes, and the dread that swelled in his chest was the same feeling of helplessness from all those years ago.

Not that many years, actually, he wasn't that old. Yet, he was going to die.

Dick's knees buckled and he slumped down unceremoniously, as the dimensions of that simple phrase crashed down on him.

He would never be on a trapeze again.

Never tell Lian about all the bullshit Roy and he had done back in the old days.

He would never be able to make sure that Bruce warmed up to Damian – or anyone, for that matter.

Never do a Quadruple again.

He had promised to spy on the boys Irey wanted to date in a couple of years, and made a pact with Jai to assemble the best pick-up lines.

He never told Barbara that he still thought they would be a kickass couple, wheelchair or not.

Sitting there on the floor, crying like a baby and close to hyperventilation, Dick realized how strongly he had been convinced that he'd survive this. It had enabled him to push it all away, to turn his attention towards his family -oh what a source of constant distraction that had been!- instead of his own condition.

He had been convinced till the end that he would make it through, just as he had survived all the battles he had fought. But this was different. There was no Oracle to guide him, no Batman to bail him out in the last minute, not even a Robin to push him over his limits.

Curling into a ball, Dick realized for the first time what losing a battle meant.

########## ########## ###

_-a few days later-_

Realization resulted in a full blown depression, as if his body and mind were determined to catch up on all he had repressed during the last months.

Hours after his breakdown Dick had managed to drag himself back onto his bed, and then simply stayed there and refused to get up. Moving as little as possible, he only got up reluctantly to use the bathroom, mainly to throw his chemo pills into the toilet.

At first, he had simply forgotten about them, and only noticed it when the nausea, his steady companion for what felt like forever, ebbed away. It was a change he could live with very well, and it suited his no-moving-philosophy just fine. But he heavily suspected Bruce was supervising his intake, and since Dick was desperately trying to avoid any confrontation, he had started to throw them away.

Watching them sink and dissolve was strangely satisfying. He was perfectly aware of what he was doing – he just didn't care much about it. He was dying; might as well die faster thanks to the cancer instead of slower thanks to the treatment.

Human contact became unbearable. While he wasn't able to understand the point in a conversation earlier, he dreaded it now. Because talking to his family or friends meant he had to _tell_ them, something Dick was sure never to be able to do. He shuddered when he only thought about it – the crying, the wailing... no thanks. Dick only wanted to be left alone.

His phlegmatic gaze went up to his mobile phone, useless, dunked in a glass of water on his bedside table. Roy hadn't stopped calling two days ago, and while Dick was perfectly fine with just ignoring it, Tim had suddenly stormed into his room and thrown the phone at him. Thanking him politely, Dick had picked it up and then dropped it into the full glass.

Timmy had stared at him wordlessly, obviously scared as shit, before giving up and leaving the room. He hadn't seen him since. Or anyone else except for Alfred for that matter, who proceeded to bring him food he didn't touch while Dick faked being asleep.

A knock on the door made him snap out of a blissful daze; Bruce was opening the door and peeking inside. "Are you awake?" he asked tentatively, and walked in when Dick didn't respond.

Richard watched his surrogate-father step into the room uneasily, taking in the pitiful phone and the drawn curtains, before meeting his son's eyes in an awkward silence.

"So.." Bruce started, unsure of what to do with his hands, probably waiting for Dick to help him through his weak point of human interaction. No such luck. "..don't you want to get up at some point?"

"No," Dick answered warily. He didn't need that now...

"Oh?"

"No,_ thanks_?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Alfred is worried about you."

Dick groaned and pulled the blankets over his head. _Gosh_, how he didn't need that shit now.

"And so am I."

"Go away."

"Come on, you haven't been downstairs in ages. We bought a Christmas tree, and Alfred asked if you wanted to help him decorate."

At that, Dick pushed the blankets away again and stared at Bruce incredulously. "You know, I really don't feel so Christmassy right now."

"No, I didn't know," Bruce jumped at the chance, "because you're avoiding me and everyone else."

"I'm tired."

"More like reactive depressive."

"World's greatest detective, huh?"

"Don't be so hostile, Dick." Much to his son's dismay, Bruce sat down on the mattress and grabbed the blanket before Dick could hide under them again. "We need to talk about this."

Sighing, Richard closed his eyes. Talking. Talking meant _telling_. He didn't _want_ to talk about this, but he knew he had to. He couldn't keep this t himself forever; Bruce had already been hurt by his postponements when he first got diagnosed, and this was just so much more. It still felt unreal and wrong, but he needed to do this.

"Okay, listen," he started, settling for the easier part and pushing himself up on his elbows. The faster he got this behind him, the faster he could go back to sleep again. Bruce seemed surprised at the sudden change of demeanor, and eagerly helped him into a sitting position."I told you before about the unsuccessful donor search..."

His family didn't know about the (also unsuccessful) change in his treatment, and when asked he had only told them that there wasn't a donor yet. Which wasn't exactly a lie, because the hospital was still checking out every new registration.

"There still isn't anyone available, and so –"

Bruce was sighing heavily and laid a hand on Dick's shoulder, putting him off his stride. "Damn," he cursed silently, "I've been pushing this conversation away for a while now, chum."

Dick smiled sadly – he knew how _that _felt. "Yeah, well, and the doc said -"

"Alfred kept telling me to talk to you, but I hoped you would manage without it, I guess. Dick," Bruce said and grabbed both of his son's shoulders, looking at him sternly, "you will get through this."

Dick huffed an ironic laugh. "About that. I wo-"

"I know it's hard, but you are strong, and..."

"Hey, listen, there's something I need to te-"

"...you always did the impossible, always bounced back..."

"Bruce, there is no do-"

"...and even if things look bleak right now, this will end just fine."

Dick let go of a long, stressed breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. Why did Bruce choose this moment out of all moments for a pep talk? He looked at the older man pleadingly, but Bruce misunderstood the glance, of course.

"Just fine, Dick. I _know_ it."

"Bruce... listen, _please_."

Bruce's face fell, and Dick was just opening his mouth to force out the words when his surrogate father glanced at the watch on his wrist with a quick movement of the eyes. Dick had barely seen it, but now that he did, he noticed a few other things: Bruce was wearing a tie, and good shoes.

"..are you in a hurry?" he asked superfluously, heart beating faster in disappointment already.

Bruce smiled sheepishly, knowing he was busted. "Yes, actually. Lucius wanted to show me some new technology, and then it's already time for patrol. We'll start with the graves today." He glanced at his watch again, and then back at his son. "So.. you were saying?"

"Oh, it's.." Dick tried to speak past the lump in his throat, ".. it's not that important. You should go, you'll be late."

Bruce nodded and then reached over unexpectedly to pull his surprised son into a strong hug. Awkwardly, Dick brought up his hand to patt Bruce's broad back.

"There'll be a donor, I'll make sure of it," Bruce murmured, and Dick couldn't suppress a small noise that sounded awful close to a sniffle. Bruce only pulled him in tighter, and he had to admit to himself that he had needed this, that it felt awesome.

Thinking about how this could be the last time his Dad was hugging him, Dick grabbed the fabric of Bruce's shirt and closed his eyes.

"I won't let you die, chum." Bruce patted the back of Dick's head softly before pulling away, looking at his son and smiling.

Dick brought up an arm to rub his sleeve against his wet eyes. What fucking irony: he had waited for this for so long, and now it didn't mean shit.

Bruce was getting up now, perfectly proud of his parenting skills and turned towards him, before leaving the room. "We'll talk about it later, okay?"

"Sure," Dick said dutifully, but he already knew that they wouldn't. He should have just written another Post-it.

########### ############# #########

"_- hell is he?!"_

"_B.'s signal just went online. He'll be there in a few seconds, just relax. Oracle out."_

"_What are you even doing here, Hood?"_

Dick had to smile; Tim's voice always sounded so much younger over the comm links, and he hadn't heard it for a while now.

"_Making sure you losers do your job, Replacement."_

"_I may remind you that you have been a replacement, too."_

"_Now since when are you supporting the Restaurant Boy, Baby Bird?"_

"_Since your incompetence is blocking our link."_

Dick reached over and turned down the volume a notch, his other hand already securing the comm link in his ear. After the semi-successful talk with Bruce a few hours ago, he had gotten curious, and crawled out of his bed for the first time in days. Alfred had left for a short while, and Dick used the opportunity to hack the computer in the bat cave to spy on his family.

"_The Grinch has arrived, do you hear me?"_

Damian chided Jason indignantly, while Tim's muffled laugh made a smile flash over Dick's face.

"_I'm not 'the Grinch', Red Hood,"_ Bruce's grumpy voice came through the link for the first time and Tim snorted even louder, Barbara's chuckles perfectly audible, too. There was a short span of silence, before Bruce spoke up again.

"_We had an agreement, Red. No guns."_

"_I'm not wearing any."_

"_Then what's that in your belt?"_

"_Ohh, come on, it's just a small one."_

"_Give it to me._"

Dick flinched in presentiment. Then, Jason sighed.

"_What happened?"_ Barbara asked curiously.

"_The Grinch stole Christmas. I repeat, the Grinch stole Christmas."_

Dick shook his head, grinning, and shut off the comm link, leaving the computer again. They were not exactly the Brady Bunch, but they were communicating.

The grin turned into a sad smile as he leaned back in his chair.

It would work out, they could do it without him.

-tbc-

_A few important things, in order of significance:_

_1)Dick's origins: A few have asked me about my take on Dick's ancestry. Well, what can I say, I haven't read the comics, I basically go with what I read in fanfictions or wikipedia. In my headcannon, he's a Romani, AND born somewhere on the road in Romania (Romani and Romanian are NOT the same thing!), before his family emigrated with Haly's circus. I don't know where I read it, but I did. Could have been a typo, but it's in my head now, and I like it. Call it patriotism on my part :D. It results in him speaking Romanian and Romani as mother tongues, and English as second language._

_2) For all of you who don't want to read a deathfic: I will NOT tell anybody what will happen with Dickiebird, 'cause where would be the fun in that? All I can say is that we still have about 8-10 chapters to go, and _a lot_ will happen! The batfamily is in for some revelations, blows and surprises. I'm very excited about what's to come, and I hope you'll read on!_

_3) and now, I'm very sad to announce a hiatus. I'll be on a student excursion for the next two weeks, and then reeaaally need to get a grip on the RL obligations I have pushed away for a while now to write Lifelines. I'm very sorry about it. All in all, I think the hiatus will last about a month, worst case 5 weeks? I'm terribly excited about the next chapters, and there is no doubt whatsoever that this story will be completed! From now on, the story will increase in pace, and you will see that the hiatus is really best placed here, for a pause somewhere in the middle of the remaining chapters would have been plain evil. _

_That said, see you after a short hiatus! I'll answer PMs and stuff again in about two weeks, until then: thanks for the awesome support, the reviews and PMs, the favs and followers! Love, Pekuxumi_


	16. Chapter 15

_A/N: Aloha, guess who's back! Thanks for all the wonderful support before and during the hiatus, which is now, officially, OVER!_

_There's one thing I'd like to announce, since it has become a big issue in the reviews... I don't like Lazarus pits. Yes, that's a hint.  
_

_You will all hate me for this chapter... ahhh, how I missed this ;)_

LIFELINES

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

_-a few days later-_

_Don't panic,_ Dick tried to calm himself down. _It's just a nosebleed. Don't. Panic._

It was cold on the bathroom tiles, and for some reason Alfred had turned off the heater. Dick could hear his teeth chatter, but didn't dare to think about whether it was due to the cold or the fear.

Because he could taste the blood on his lips, and every time he swallowed there was more of that copper taste in his mouth.

Leaning against the bathtub, facing the toilet, Dick tried to staunch the flow of blood that kept pouring out of his nose. Every few minutes (_too few, too fast_, Dick thought) he threw the drenched and disgusting clot of paper into the toilet and ripped another set off the almost empty roll of toilet paper that lay beside him.

The bleeding had woken him up some time ago, and he had groggily stumbled into the bathroom. It was far from the first bleeding he had experienced since he had been diagnosed, and he didn't think much about it at first. But as he watched how the blood dripped into the white sink, trepidation had wormed its way into his guts.

It was too much, too fast.

Dick's condition had worsened over the last days. His depression hadn't lessened after his talk with Bruce, and listening to his family's banter of the comm link had filled him with an aching knowledge that he wasn't needed anymore.

His joints had started to ache again, and his vision would spin every time he got up.

Resigned, he counted back the days. He had signed his palliative-care papers about 10 days ago, when he had gotten the diagnosis. That made about two weeks since he relapsed, since his bone marrow had started to spew out mutated blood cells again. He had stopped taking his chemo pills a week ago.

Dick remembered how he had asked himself what his illness would be like without the radical treatment he had undergone. Apparently, he was getting his answer.

Everything hurt. Since he had avoided moving for a while, his family hadn't noticed at first. But when Alfred shooed him out of the bed to change the linen and Dick had doubled over instantly, the news had spread through the manor faster than Ivy's mold.

Bruce had been at his side in an instant, trying to find out what was wrong. The stinging pain in Dick's lower back made it impossible for him to speak. After a while, though, it subsided. The pain medication had made him sleepy and apathetic, but he had heard how Bruce had tried in vain to get Leslie on the phone.

When he woke up a few hours later, Bruce had been sitting next to his bed, promising they'd go see a doctor the next day, when his schedule allowed him some space to breathe. They never did.

Only the next day, Dick had coincidentally noticed the new bruises on his arms, the net of blue and violet that stretched over his back.

The nosebleed hadn't been a surprise, therefore.

Vomiting blood was, though.

Shaking violently, Dick stared into the toilet, into the red mass he had just spat out. His mouth tasted like copper, and he furiously wiped the blood from his lips, tainting his sleeve deep red.

This wasn't good.

Dick leaned back against the tiles, shaky, shocked. One hand, equipped with a fresh clot of paper, pressed against his still bleeding nose mechanically.

This was bad. Very, very bad.

He felt lightheaded, sick. His stomach clenched, but Dick swallowed the cool air greedily, not daring to heave up more blood.

_It's just the blood you swallowed_, he tried to reason, _it looks like a lot because it's mixed with gastric acid and whatnot. Don't worry._

He suppressed the urge to call for Alfred again. The old butler was down in the Batcave, guiding his family through the streets of Gotham. Probably with a comm link in on ear that blasted out Gotham's noise. He couldn't hear him.

Dick's thoughts went to the mobile phone, useless after he had dunked it into the glass of water.

His breath hitched, his heartbeat fastened. _Keep calm, it's just a nosebleed. Don't panic._

Because if he panicked, his heart rate would go up, and the bleeding would strengthen.

Dick panicked.

He wasn't ready for this shit. He didn't want to die on the bathroom tiles from a nosebleed. What kind of lame death was that? He was a crime fighter, for god's sake, a Flying Grayson!

There was a phone in the hallway – the image flashed through Dick's brain. He couldn't reach his vigilante family, but he could call Roy, or Babs. _Wally!_

Trying to collect his strength, Dick pushed himself up, groaning from the pain in his bones. He managed two swaying steps before his knees turned into jelly and gave up; he slumped to the ground unceremoniously.

The effort had left him panting, and the nausea returned full force.

He would never make it to the phone, he knew. He would pass out sooner and then would bleed to death, if this goddamn bleeding didn't stop.

It hadn't, as the small pool around his hands affirmed.

Somehow he managed to scramble back into a sitting position, with his head resting on the rim of the tub. He was so tired.

A tear slipped across one of his cheeks and Dick wiped it away angrily, only to freeze at the sight of more red on the fabric of his sleeve.

He was bleeding out of his fucking eye socket.

This wasn't a strong nosebleed, this was hemorrhaging. The platelets in his blood weren't working, and somewhere in his body, blood vessels were leaking. There were bruises under his skin, but the internal bleeding sought its way out of his body – through his nose, his eyes, into his stomach.

The hand that pressed the drenched through clot of paper against his nose fell away. Dick was staring into nothing.

He was bleeding internally, badly, it seemed. And there was no reason to believe that this would stop soon; it would only become worse. Nothing would stop a vessel in his brain from bursting, anything could happen.

Dick didn't dare to look down at his lap to find out what else he was bleeding from.

Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to take a few shaky, deep breaths to calm himself. He needed a plan. He needed to get to that phone and call Wally.

But closing his eyes had been a mistake, he soon realized. Opening them again was hard, and he was so tired.

Darkness was pulling him in, and when he managed to crack his eyes open for the last time, he noticed that he wasn't leaning against the tub anymore, but already lying across the floor...

…. …..

….

########## ################ ##########

...

_A bang, steps. He felt the vibrations of the ground._

_..._

"Di-? DAD!"

_The voice was familiar, but... 'Dad'? Huh..._

_Louder steps, hurried. Heavier._

_..._

_Hands around him, ...warmth._

_... ... _

_Something soft against his face. _

"Where did all that blood even come from?"_ - _"Did he hit his head?"

"...Oh God, Bruce.. Look at the toilet."

_... ..._

"Call an ambulance, quick. ... _Tim!_"

_..steps..._

_..._

_.._

_-tbc-_


	17. Chapter 16

_Warning: much blabla at the end. Also, muuuch medical termini to be explained at the end of the chapter. Sorry for that._

LIFELINES

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Bruce guided Damian towards the med table, careful to avoid touching his son's arm.

"Another stab wound, Master Damian?" Alfred asked, displeased, but the small ex-assassin only hissed and cursed in Arabic. With a pair of scissors, the old man started to cut the tissue away from the deep wound.

"We need to work on your defenses, Robin," Bruce chided while he stripped out of his Batman costume and changed into a plain shirt and pants. "You're too aggressive; that wound could have been easily avoided."

"What are you grinning at, Drake?"

Tim, already dressed in civvies, refrained from saying anything and just made his way past his little brother.

"Nothing, Damian," he deflected wisely, "I'm gonna check up on Dick. Good night."

"Sir," Alfred said pensively after a few seconds of examining Damian's wound, "please fetch me some Vicodin from upstairs."

"I don't need any pain medication, father!"

"Don't you have any down here?" Bruce asked, startled – usually pain medication was basic stock in the Batcave... for obvious reasons.

"I fear I left them upstairs after Master Richard's latest... episode," Alfred answered, frowning, as if wondering himself how he could have missed something like that.

The ensuing silence was uncomfortable, and Bruce only nodded without meeting the butler's eyes. He still hadn't taken Dick to a doctor, even though he had –

"_DAD!"_

Tim's voice cut through the silence, making all three current residents of the cave flinch. Bruce and Alfred's eyes met briefly, surprise and panic evident in both glances, before Bruce sprinted upstairs, fearing the worst. Tim had never before called him Dad, only under the influence of drugs or badly hurt. Right now, he was neither drugged nor injured, and Bruce had a terrible apprehension about what could have worked him into such a state.

Bursting into Dick's room without second thoughts, Bruce was faced with an empty bed and a bloody pillow, illuminated by the adjacent light of the bathroom.

"Bruce?!" Tim's voice, shrill, called him, and he made his way over immediately.

The sight that greeted him was gruesome; the blood that had pooled around Dick's head drew a sharp contrast against the shiny white tiles, and red hand prints and splashes of blood decorated the area around his son's body. Tim was towering over the motionless form of his big brother, fingers pressed against his neck in search for a pulse.

Years of training kicked in faster than any gland could have released adrenaline, and Batman took over Bruce's thinking, enabling him to take in the situation efficiently and calm. Tim hadn't been that lucky, Bruce could tell after a few glances. He was shaking, eyes wide and breathing elaborated, and when he told him to move, the boy blinked at him confusedly.

"What happened?" Bruce asked while kneeling down beside Dick, taking in the slow rise and fall of his chest with relief. Dick's eyes were closed tightly, lashes dark against pallid skin. He was lying on his side with his head resting on one of his arms, just as if he had fallen asleep. The white shirt he was wearing was soaked in blood where the fluid had touched the fabric.

"I... don't..I saw.. the pillow, and... huh.." Bruce glared at Tim impatiently, and the boy swallowed thickly, collecting himself for a full situation report. "I thought he had a nosebleed. I found him like this. There are blood splatters in the sink."

Bruce nodded, thoughts going a mile a minute. Dick hadn't just passed out; his body position told a different story. It seemed like he had sat down first... maybe he had been dizzy? He glanced at the pool of blood around his son's head, and carefully turned the fragile body over on its back to look for injuries... but there were none.

"Where did all that blood even come from?" he wondered aloud, taking in the bloodstains on Dick's clothing, which followed no logical pattern.

"Did he hit his head?" Tim asked, similarly confused, and grabbed a towel to carefully wipe away the blood on his brother's face. Bruce shook his head, mesmerized by the light colour. _Too many leukocytes_, he thought,_ too little erythrocytes to provide for the usual red colour. _But that would mean...

Heart beating faster, Bruce lifted Dick's shirt and revealed the sickening pattern of blueish bruises that covered his skin._ It's back_, Batman told his dreading mind and confirmed his suspicions, _he relapsed._

"Oh _God,_ Bruce..." Tim breathed, a hand pressed against his mouth. He had stood up some time during Bruce's examination, and now stared with wide eyes at a spot behind his back. "Look at the toilet."

Bruce did so, and his breath hitched at the sight. There was a mountain of blood-drenched toilet paper in the bowl, and a bloody hand print on the seat. The porcelain walls were covered in red, and Bruce's hard-earned resolve melted away when his mind made the only logical assumption.

"Call an ambulance, quick," he ordered with a faint voice, while he picked up the light body from the floor and pressed him against his chest. Dick was cold to the touch... dear god, how long had he been lying here? Bruce could feel the panic rising in his chest. _Stay calm, don't panic..._

"_Tim!_" he called more firmly when the third Robin still hadn't moved. Tim looked at him, and Bruce shifted Dick's body so that he could raise an arm and point to the door.

It hadn't been a good idea – disturbed by the sudden movement, Dick jerked upwards, suddenly puking blood. Out of reflex Bruce turned the body away from him, and the blood hit the floor in a sickening noise instead of soaking both of their shirts.

Tim bolted out of the room immediately, and part of Bruce wished he could do the same. Instead he grabbed the nearest towels while awkwardly holding Dick, who had gone very, very still again, and spread them over the floor, before lowering his son to lay on top of them.

_He's puking blood._ Bruce drew in a sharp breath, trying to collect himself, but the stench of fresh blood was too much, too strong, to enable him retreat into logic and reason. Dear Lord, how much had he lost already?

Alfred appeared out of nowhere, already with a blanket and a blood pressure gauge. Tim had obviously given him a warning about the sight that would await him, for he didn't even hesitate before throwing the blanket over Dick's body.

"Master Timothy called an ambulance, they will be here in a minute." He handed the gauge to Bruce, who took it apprehensively. "Master Damian is sleeping in the med bay. I figured that he might not want to experience... this."

A shiver went through the usually firm shoulders, but Bruce didn't see it. He was busy with shifting Dick into lateral recumbent position, afraid of another squall of blood.

Sirens were already audible when he applied the gauge around Dick's arm, and Bruce could hear Tim's steps as he hurried to open the door for the paramedics.

"I'll go pack a bag, sir."

"A bag?" Bruce regretted asking the moment he saw Alfred's sad expression.

"I fear he'll have to stay in the hospital for a while now, Bruce."

################# #################### ####################

The time went by in slow motion, unbearable for the man who sat in one of those ugly green plastic chairs that seemed to be the standard feature of every hospital.

Bruce stared at the clock, watching the big clock hand travel forward, willing it to go faster. He had promised himself to wait for another twenty minutes before giving the nurses living hell, and frankly, just the prospect of actually doing something made the last three minutes unbearable.

Bruce hated waiting. He hated to sit around and do nothing, especially when he knew that somewhere in this building, the life of his eldest son was on the line.

Even though he hadn't thought about anything else for the last 70 minutes, Bruce flinched anew. Dick's life was on the line. It had been for a while now – months, actually! –, but it had never before hit him that hard. He had been able to deny that his son was failing to respond properly to chemotherapy since he learned about the cancer in the first place. It had enabled him to keep on the stern and silent facade during their childish quarrel in the first month after Dick had told him... god, how that stung now.

Situations flashed before Bruce's inner eye, moments in which could have, should have, done more than he actually did. Why hadn't he tried harder to pull Dick out of that depression that hit him out of nowhere? Had he really been that blind to believe that he would be able to do so himself?

Not for the first time, Bruce wished Alfred were here. He had lost him and Tim about half an hour earlier, when Alfred said that he'd better head home to clean up the bathroom before Damian woke up from his drug induced slumber to stumble into the mess. Tim stayed a few minutes longer, until the pale and shaking teen went to grab a coffee for both of them, only to come back to announce that the whole hospital lobby was filled with reporters and journalists. Undoubtedly they wanted to find out why an ambulance, sirens blaring, had visited Wayne Manor.

Apart from the fact that Bruce refused to move away from the door he knew a doctor should appear from any second, his shirt was still covered in bloodstains, presenting a gruesome sight. Tim nodded slowly when Bruce didn't respond to his questions about what to tell the newspapers, and then left to deal with them alone.

Seconds before the clock hand reached the number Bruce was staring at, a nurse approached him with a file in hand. "Did you arrive with Richard Grayson?"

Bruce nodded eagerly, noticing how his hands started to shake. "How is he?"

"The bleeding has stopped, and there is no indication of any bleeding in his brain on the CT scans. He lost a lot of blood, however, and went into hypovolaemic shock on the way to the hospital."

"Can I see him?" Bruce's voice sounded faint, unfamiliar even to him. _Hypovolaemic shock.._

"He's been transferred to the ICU. We called his emergency contact, he'll probably be there already."

Bruce didn't even thank her, so fast did he turn around and head for the elevator.

############ ############## #########

He was still metres away from the intensive care unit when the mystery of Dick's emergency contact was revealed with a loud voice and much swearing.

"You will fucking tell me what the hell happened or I _swear_ I'll – "

"Stop this," Bruce intervened and earned a thankful glance from the scared doctor Jason had lifted up by the collar of his shirt.

"Bruce," the ex-Robin greeted without much enthusiasm and dropped the guy.

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne," the doc said while he adjusted his thick glasses, recognizing the famous man in front of him. "Mr. Cox here does not seem to want to show his I.D. to confirm being Mr. Grayson's emergency contact."

"I can assure you that he is, now can we please get some information about my son?"

"Of course, please follow me." The doc turned around and headed towards the end of the corridor, Jason and Bruce awkwardly tagging along. Bruce could feel the anxiety rising in his chest, and turned to Jason, who looked equally tense.

"Mr. Cox?"

Jason sneered, "Yeah, Mr. _Cox_. The _Dick_ apparently had thought himself very funny when he wrote a name down beside my phone number. 'Peter Cox', honestly, who makes up that kind of thing?"

"P. Cox?" Bruce felt amusement tugging at his lips when he saw Jason's bewilderment at this new aspect of his 'name', "seems fitting."

The small banter was interrupted abruptly when the doctor stopped in front of a door and turned towards them. It got serious.

"The bad news is that Richard's leukemia has taken a turn for the worse, I fear," he began his sermon, and Jason flinched beside Bruce.

"He relapsed?"

"Yes, and it's an aggressive relapse. This also caused the bleeding and his low level of thrombocytes couldn't stop it. He lost a lot of blood; we are treating the hypovolaemic shock right now, but he developed a strong fever and we need to keep a close eye on that before we can administer medication."

Bruce and Jason both nodded.

"The good news is that we discovered the renal failure at an early stage and can spare hi – "

"_Renal failure?!_" Bruce interrupted flabbergasted. What was this guy talking about?!

"Oh, yes," the doc winced under the shocked glances of the two men, "his kidneys are failing. His body is shutting down, and the kidneys are usually one of the first organs to stop working properly. The chemotherapy was straining them immensely, and in post-chemo patients the kidneys can't reorganize to manage another condition of the blood again."

"And what the fuck is '_good news'_ about that!?" Jason pushed the doctor away forcefully and burst through the door of Dick's room. There was the sound of a sharp intake of air, and Bruce turned towards the doctor.

"Maybe you should come back in a few minutes."

The man disappeared with a nod, and Bruce crossed the threshold into Dick's room. Jason was standing in the middle of the room, rooted to the spot, staring at the bed. Bruce followed his gaze with trepidation, and tried in vain to keep up his composure when he saw his son.

Dick was as pale as the bed sheets, and the blood that ran through the various tubes in and out of his body drew a sharp, violent contrast. They had cleaned him up at least; on a chair beside the bed Bruce could make out the stained clothes he had been wearing when he had been hospitalized. There were three IV bags towering above him, one of them a huge plastic bag of isotonic saline solution that Bruce guessed was a counter measure against the hypovolaemic condition. Beside it were two bags with an unmistakeable red fluid, darker and richer in colour than anything that flooded through his son's veins.

But most unsettling was the sight of a huge machine beside Dick's bed, humming and beeping, which was connected to him through a few tubes that seemed to carry blood, too. A dialysis machine. It was what had captured Jason's attention, what he hadn't expected to see.

Bruce took an uncertain step towards the pallid form on the bed, but was suddenly yanked back and slammed into the nearest wall by strong but shaky arms.

"What the fuck?!" Jason shouted into his face and grabbed Bruce's shoulders in a painful grip. "Are you freaking kidding me? How long has he been out to develop a fucking _fever_?!"

"Jason..." Bruce sighed and tried to push his wayward son away from him. He didn't have enough patience left to deal with a Jason-freak out.

"You have no idea, right? He almost bled to death in your _bathroom_, for fuck's sake!"

"_Quiet_!" Bruce hissed, angered and hurt to hear the accusations his mind had realized earlier come out of Jason's mouth. "We didn't know that he relapsed!"

It had been the wrong thing to say. Jason's temper went through the roof in mere seconds, and a fist crashed into the thin wall beside Bruce's face.

"You 'didn't know'? Did you even look at him, Bruce?! You were supposed to look after him, that's why he moved back in the first place!"

"Don't you dare turn this into my fault," Bruce's voice dropped to a dangerous low, close to Batman's.

"Of course it's your fault!" Jason was not impressed at all. "What was so important that you couldn't keep one of the goddamn family at home to look after him? Ivy? Clayface?"

"Shut up! It's not like we've seen much of _you_ since he moved back!"

It had been a low blow, but something flickered over Jason's face, something awful close to regret and bad conscience. Bruce recognized it from the earlier times, when Jason had still been his Robin and had sometimes called him 'Dad'. It had vanished when Ra's reanimated him, and Bruce hadn't believed he would see it ever again.

Jason drew back as if he'd been bitten by a snake, going into defensive immediately, but still lashing out hotly. "He wouldn't have needed me in the first place if you'd do your job properly."

"I don't think you, of all people, are qualified to judge how I am doing my job."

Jason's eyes narrowed dangerously, voice cold as ice. "You don't even get _what job_ I'm talking about, do you?" And when Bruce remained silent, confused, he added: "Lord knows how Goldie managed to put up with you for all those years. No wonder he wasn't keen on getting back to Gotham."

"Get out," Bruce growled, taking a menacing step towards the other man, "I don't need to hear this from someone who has been using a sick person to get back at me."

Closing the space between them, Jason drew near until their noses almost touched. "You're lucky that this is a hospital," he whispered, before pivoting on his heels and stomping out of the room, not without slamming the door shut with a bang.

Bruce stared at the door for a while, before sighing and turning back to the still figure on the hospital bed. Dick hadn't woken up during their argument, and even though Bruce was thankful for that, the silence and lack of movement freaked him out. It was almost as if that person lying in front of him wasn't the same as the one he had helped raise, had watched grow up.

The steady beeping of the EKG was relieving, and Dick's chest rose evenly, breathing without any aid. But his skin was pale, and when Bruce leaned over him, he could see the blue veins standing out strongly. Incomparable to the young boy in the picture on Bruce's desk who had the rich tan of his ancestors and was perpetually complaining about how Gotham's sun 'sucked'.

"Mr. Wayne?"

The doctor was back, pulling Bruce out of his train of thought. The billionaire straightened and nodded for the younger man to step closer; he didn't want to leave his son's bedside.

"Mr. Cox won't return, if I assume right?"

"No." Their argument had probably echoed through the whole hospital, and Jason's loud departure surely hadn't gone unnoticed either.

"I understand that this is a very difficult time for everyone involved," the doc said, nodding in Dick's direction. "It's never easy to face such a predicament, especially at such a young age."

"Tell me about his condition," Bruce requested. He really didn't need the false compassion of... Dr. Brown, the nametag read. "When will he wake up?"

"That's difficult to say," Dr. Brown said after a quick check with his files, "Dialysis is a very strenuous process for the patient. Since Richard has been hospitalized through the emergency room, the dialysis has been ordered, unfortunately."

Bruce's eyebrow shot up. Unfortunately? "I don't understand."

Equally puzzled, Dr. Brown looked at him. "Well, it's considered an invasive measure."

"So what? He needs it, right?"

"Uh, yes, but," the doctor was obviously growing uncomfortable, "Richard's living will states that he decided against life-prolonging measures."

Bruce stared at him. Living will? What was this guy talking about? A lump of ice started to form in Bruce's stomach... something was off; this wasn't good.

Dr. Brown seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion, awkwardly trying to get out of the tight spot. "Okay, so dialysis isn't actually considered 'life-prolonging' in the usual understanding, but, well, renal failure has been expected and he knew about it when he signed the papers, so..."

Part of Bruce had zoned out, staring at the unconscious form before him. "He knew what would happen?"

"I wasn't there when Richard signed the documents, but there's a standard procedure to hold on to. In cases like Richard's we try to leave the patient as much freedom as possible. Since many patients decide to stop treatment, I'm sure his oncologist-.. Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce's thoughts had ground to a halt. "Dick didn't stop treatment," he blurted out.

The doctor stared at him now, surprised, a new understanding arising. He coughed slightly, and skimmed through the file to a specific page. "Yes, Mr. Wayne, he has. The results of his blood tests are very unambiguous. He must have stopped the oral chemotherapy about a week ago, maybe longer."

The bad feeling in his intestines intensified, and for a moment, Bruce thought he might lose his ability to stand upright. "Why would he do something like that?" He had been depressed, yes. But Dick wasn't stupid, he knew what it meant to stop treatment.

"Many palliative patients decide – ...ohhh," Dr. Brown stopped short when Bruce's head snapped around, staring at him bewildered and aghast. "He didn't tell you."

Bruce's inner composure collapsed like a house of cards. A gentle hand on his shoulder guided him into a chair beside the hospital bed, and when he looked up, the doctor studied him with a mixture of pity and affection. Bruce tried to retreat into Batman logic, ask question, get a grip on the situation, but his mind wasn't able to hold on to a specific thought, and nothing came out of his mouth when he opened it.

"Mr. Wayne, Richard relapsed about two weeks ago, in spite of consolidation chemotherapy and immunotherapy. We ran out of options when no bone marrow donor could be found, and Richard decided against extreme chemotherapy without chances of success in the long haul."

Bruce stared at his son, still unconscious, breathing evenly almost as if he were sleeping, if it weren't for the tubes full of blood and the beeping and humming machines. Palliative care? Dick was dying?

Unbelievable. Bruce couldn't bring the two concepts together in his head. After everything they've been through together, after all those injuries and close calls, the idea of Dick dying from a disease was just not something Bruce's mind was able to process.

Impossible; outrageous, really. Not like that. Not him.

"Mr. Wayne?"

"What will happen now?" Bruce's voice was low, collected. Not what Dr. Brown had expected, and when Bruce's glance met his again, he was taken aback by the calmness of his gaze. _Denial_, he thought.

"That really depends on Richard. The fever will wear him out, and maybe he won't be able to leave the hospital again. The rest is a question of time, I fear."

Bruce flinched at the last sentence. "What about his kidneys? Will they recover?"

Dr. Brown's brow furrowed, wondering if the man in front of him understood what he had just said. Bruce couldn't care less. "No, not without regular dialysis."

"Which you won't let happen, because of the living will. So what time frame are we talking about?"

"... two weeks, maybe three. Depending on the severity of the fever and his kidneys' response to the dialysis he's undergoing now."

Bruce was nodding slowly, one hand clasped over his chin, deeply in thoughts. "When will he wake up?"

Underlying, Dr. Brown could hear another question: _Will he wake up? "_In the next few hours, but he'll be disoriented thanks to the fever and the dialysis. He should rest as much as possible."

"Am I allowed to use my mobile phone in here?"

"Uh, sure." The question came out of nowhere for Dr. Brown, and when he looked up again, Bruce was standing up again and smiled at him in his best business manner.

"Thank you, Doctor. I'd like to have a bit of privacy, please."

The doctor disappeared, relieved, and as soon as the door closed, Bruce started to punch in a number on his phone. It rang a few times, until a sleepy voice answered.

"Lucius? I need you to find me the best experts on the field of leukemia and fly them in tomorrow... no, money is not an issue, promise them whatever they want."

-tbc-

**medical termini:**

**thrombocytes: **a component of blood cells (besides leukocytes and erythrocytes), the platelets. Basically, they are responsible for stopping a bleeding, for making the blood 'clot'. If their count is too low, there will be **hemorraghing **- the bleeding won't stop or stops too slow (this is what happened to Dickiebird); if their count is too high, there is the danger of thrombosis, a blood clot that clogs the blood vessel and stops proper blood flow or even gets flushed into the heart or lung, cutting them off of blood eventually.

**hypovolaemic shock: Hypovolaemia **is the state of decreased blood volume. Blood vessels need to be filled with a certain volume (=fluid) or they collapse (to narrow the passage the blood floods through, veins contract if there is not enough blood in the body; a vein can't be 'half filled'). If a body loses blood/fluid too fast, the person goes into a type of shock, the **hypovolaemic shock** – the vessels in the limbs contract so that the remaining blood keeps circulating through the most important organs (brain, liver, lung, heart).

**renal/ kidney failure: kidneys **are supposed to filter waste from the blood, thus producing urine. If that doesn't work, the blood of the body is flooded with wastes such as ammonium and stuff, which prevents the blood components from working properly and even poisons the body after a while. The rapid loss of kidney function is called **acute kidney/renal failure**. There are different forms depending on the causes, and we will focus on the **intrinsic kidney injury** – which is a complication of cancer therapy. Chemotherapy kills the cancer cells, and those dying cancer cells contain break-down products that are hard for the kidneys to get rid off, sometimes even attack them. This consequently leads to acute kidney failure, and happens most frequently in patients with lymphomas or acute leukemia. Usually treated with **hemodialysis.** (The actual name for the cause of intrinsic kidney failure due to cancer therapy is called **tumor lysis syndrom,** if anyone wants to be a smart ass ;) )

**(hemo)dialysis: **If the kidneys won't work properly anymore thanks to renal failure, a patient has to undergo dialysis. I'm going to do that quick and dirty, because I have actually no idea how it works on molecular level (help, anyone?): A patient is hooked up to a **dialysis machine**, and the 'dirty' blood is carried into it, gets cleaned, and carried back into the patient body. The process involves diffusion of solutes across a semipermeable membrane (totally copied and pasted that from wikipedia). The process takes about 4 hours and is very (!) strenuous for the patient. Depending on the severity of the renal failure, it has to be done more or less often and maybe even on a long term basis (patients with irreparable kidney failure have to undergo dialysis three times a week!)

**please check the following chapters for explanations of:**

**8 – erythrocytes; 8/11- leukocytes; 11- consolidation chemotherapy; 12- immunotherapy; 8,9 – bone marrow (donation); 14- palliative care.**

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_Sorry for not explaining all the medical termini, but it would have gotten out of hand in this chapter. I included the already much explained thrombocytes because they are very important to understand what happened to Dickiebird. The next chapters will be heavy in medical terms again, I fear there's no way out of that, but I'll try to keep it at bay._

_I'm blown away by two things: my commitment to this story (just spent two hours researching medical procedures and treatments) and, more importantly, _your_ commitment to this story! I know I keep repeating myself, but, 44 reviews for one chapter? Guys, you're spoiling me. I'm gonna end up like a diva who complains about getting 'only 10 reviews' XDD._

_I couldn't resist the 'P. Cox'-pun. Somehow, Jason has turned out to be my slapstick character, I don't know how that happened. Probably because he tries so hard not to be. ...and because I love him. Yeah, can't stress that enough. Oh Jay... Sorry, hon. (not really.)_

_And yes, now we have Bruce's POV, which is... tricky. I struggled hard to get into all this Can't-accept, or (God forbid!) SHOW -emotions characterization. I hope you'll bear with me. The story will change in pace and narrative structure from now on, since Dick's continuous narration is, well, out of the game from now on. You have been warned!_


	18. Chapter 17

_Medical termini will be explained at the end of the chapter._

LIFELINES

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

_-a few hours later-_

When Babs wheeled into the hospital room, Bruce was on the phone talking to a German scientist while simultaneously engaged in a video conference with three Spanish speaking doctors Lucius had convinced to go online.

"Ihre Forschung wird teuer werden," Bruce uttered into the mobile phone while nodding a short greeting to Barbara, "und ein Sponsor aus der Industrie könnte Sie für weitere Projekte interessanter machen."*

The doctors on his screen were debating with each other and the scientist on the other side of the line was looking for some documents, so Bruce shifted his attention to the red haired woman in the wheelchair. She had approached the bed slowly, with teary eyes, and now had taken Dick's hand into hers. The young man had still not woken up; after the dialysis came to an end about an hour ago his fever had risen.

"Oh, Dick," he could hear her whisper, "don't do this to us."

Five minutes later the conversation was over, the German scientist hopefully on his way to the airport, and Bruce's laptop was finally shutting down. Bruce checked his watch – Lucius had promised to call in half an hour and the next Skype conversation with Japan was due in fifty minutes.

Time to breathe.

He turned his attention back to Barbara, who had wiped away a few tears during his conversations, but had calmed down somewhat in the meantime.

"Thanks for coming, Barbara. Did you read it in the tabloids?" Bruce hadn't seen any headlines so far, but he was pretty sure that Dick's condition was now all over the news. Tim had done a fine job, Alfred had told him on the phone, telling the truth but keeping the drama at bay. The media knew about the leukemia, but not about the full severity of the situation. Bruce made a mental note to transfer Dick to another floor of the hospital, somewhere the media couldn't access.

Barbara shook her head, though. "Tim called me."

No more words were needed; Bruce was sure that Tim had given her the full story, the one he still refused to accept.

"How is he?" he asked, worried. After Tim had come back from talking to the journalists, Bruce had had to tell him about Dick's condition. Just then his phone had rung with a call from Lucius and when Bruce had looked up again the teen was gone.

"Miserable, of course," Barbara answered, never taking her eyes off Dick's face. On her lap, she balanced his hospital file.

The conversation died down after that, and Bruce turned towards the window, giving Barbara a bit of privacy without actually leaving her alone.

"I didn't know, if you're wondering." Her voice was sad and toneless. "He didn't tell me."

He had been wondering indeed. Babs and Dick had phoned all the time until Dick drowned his mobile phone in a glass of water, and they were close. Barbara had been the first to know of Dick's predicament in general; Bruce had hoped that she would be able to help him make sense out of the inexplicable decisions his son had made without his knowledge.

"I can't believe it," she whispered, close to tears again, "This is just wrong..."

"Did you get the mission report Tim wrote in the car?" Bruce asked, watching Babs' reflection in the glass pane.

She nodded absentmindedly, "I haven't read it yet."

"Don't bother," Bruce closed his eyes, awaiting the storm of emotions he knew would rain down on him after the next sentences. "I'm changing the plan. Damian was hurt tonight, and Tim is too unstable at the moment. Send me all the data you have about Raleigh; I'll take over the mission exclusively."

There was silence, and Bruce opened his eyes to blink at Babs' reflection. She was staring at his back, bewildered and unbelieving. "_What? _You want to go on with this stupid case even though your son is _dying_ right in front of you?"

"As much as I want to, I can't abandon Gotham. Send me the files and I'll do all the work."

The look he got after that turned into a scornful glare, and almost too quiet to hear: "The hell I will."

Bruce turned towards her, carefully avoiding looking at the patient on the bed, and brought up the emotional walls he knew he'd need in a discussion with Barbara. The former Batgirl had a way of getting under the skin of each member of the family; terrifyingly smart, strong, and emotional at the same time. After the loss of her ability to walk she had slowly but steadily taken control over Gotham and its vigilante-business until she had become an indispensable part again – Oracle held more power than Batman, than Bruce.

Faced with her indignation and anger, when at the same time her eyes were still red from crying, Bruce understood what Dick had always seen in her, why she had held a special place in his heart from the very beginning: Barbara, Batgirl or Oracle – they all were one person, just different facets of the same personality. While Bruce's separation of his Batman character sometimes bordered on schizophrenia, unable to balance Batman and Bruce at the same time, the woman in front of him was at a complete peace with herself. She was able to combine Oracle's sharpness with Barbara Gordon's feelings at any time... just like she did now.

But Bruce Wayne never knew another way to deal with loss other than hiding away. Hiding behind someone stronger, both physically and mentally. He needed to work on this case, make sure that the world still responded to logic, before he could try to deal with losing someone he just couldn't lose.

"I told you this would backfire on you, you blockhead," Barbara whispered suddenly, shaking her head. It took Bruce a moment to realize that she hadn't talked to him, but to his unconscious son. His brow furrowed, but before he could say anything, she focused on him again.

"Bruce," she said, determination and stubbornness evident in every fiber of her body, "forget the case, the coffins. Trust me, it's not important right now."

"We don't know what Raleigh plans with all that heroin, and there are only five graves left. I can do them in a week." _He has two more left, the doctor said... _Bruce swallowed hard and resisted the temptation to glance at Dick's pale face.

"Fuck Raleigh, isn't Dick more important right now?"

"He would do the same if the roles were reversed." Barbara's eyes bulged. "He'll understand."

Barbara hid her face in the hand that wasn't clasped around Dick's and sighed long and painful. "I don't like to admit it, but you're right on that one." She cast a sad glance to Dick. "He would keep on with his mission, no matter what.. But still. Bruce, forget Raleigh,_ please._"

"I can't," he pressed out, and watched annoyed how Barbara rolled her eyes, "not until I have solved it."

"Okay, that's it." Barbara shook her head at Dick's still form and let go of his hand to cross her arms. She leaned back in her chair and focused on Bruce, taking a deep breath. "I know the civilian name of Raleigh's boss."

Bruce's head snapped around painfully, and he crossed the few metres to his son's bed in a second, anger and bewilderment rising in his chest. "_What?!_"

"I've known for a while now. It's Richard John Grayson, currently residing at Gotham General, ICU, room 04."

The information needed a few seconds to reach Bruce's mind with all its implications; the two concepts wouldn't match at first, but then it slammed into him like one of Bane's punches. He stood there, eyes wide and mouth agape, until the cogwheels in his head started to turn again and dismissed the new input as impossible.

"What are you talking about?" He hissed therefore, staring angrily at Barbara's impassive face. "He would never do something like that."

She patted Dick's hand softly. "_Of course_ he didn't deal with any drugs. He made it all up. Raleigh doesn't exist, the reports that date back more than three months are faked and the newer events have been arranged and transfigured by the two of us."

When Bruce still shook his head rigorously, pacing around like a tiger in the small room, she smiled a small, cocky smile. "Oh, come on. Coincidentally Raleigh turned to Gotham as soon as Dick had to leave Blüdhaven? Dealing with kids, the crime Jason most hates? Have you checked Dick's bank account over the last few weeks?"

For the second time this night, Bruce felt sick, nauseated by the dimensions of the secrets Richard had been hiding from him. Could this be true? No, it couldn't.

"Why would he do something like that?"

"This dickhead here," she motioned to the bed, "was completely resolved to reunite your family. And for _some_ reason he thought that the only way to bring Jason and you closer would be if you worked on the same case."

"That's bullshit," Bruce heard himself say, but mental images of the past weeks already lined up before his inner eye, rearranging under the new light that shone on them.

"That's what I told him," Barbara murmured soberly, taking Dick's hand into hers again. "But he was determined to bring the two of you together again."

"But.._ why_?"

"Bruce..." Barbara said softly, dismissing her smart Oracle facade, "don't you remember Jason's death? Do you remember what prevented you from losing your mind?"

Of course he remembered. The memory still tore at his heart every time it came up, and when Bruce finally understood where Barbara was going, his fists tightened and his mouth went dry.

What had kept him sane during those dark, dark days and nights had been the return of his eldest son. Despite all of their issues and arguments that had driven a wedge between the two of them, Dick had returned to coax him out of his grief, to show him that the world was still turning. He had never considered that Dick knew how dependent Bruce had been on this source of light, but apparently he had understood all too well. And when faced with his possible death, Dick had drawn a logical conclusion: This time, another son had to return and step up to his legacy.

_Oh, Dick_, Bruce thought, returning to his son's bedside slowly, _why didn't you just talk to me?_

But he had, Bruce realized with a guilty conscience, he had tried for years to talk him and Jason out of their mutual sulk. And when his time had begun to run out, he had drawn on desperate measures.

Bruce remembered the nights of the last few weeks with the Red Hood at his side, without guns but with many witty comebacks. Not too different from Jason's times as Robin. They hadn't exactly been close, hadn't talked about their problems like Dick always wanted them too, but they had been closer than during the few years since Jason had returned.

Digging up graves... Bruce couldn't help but shake his head. Damn, Dick really had brought in the big guns.

_...instead of concentrating on himself. _And then, Bruce understood what had been going on all the time. Why Dick had tried to stall for time before he had to return to Gotham, and why the message of his death had hit him so hard, apparently. Instead of preparing himself for it, accepting the idea, his son had been writing reports and planning missions. Only when everything else had started to work out did he come face-to-face with his condition, when it was already too late. He hadn't told his family about his palliative status, because he hadn't had time to come to terms with it himself.

_...Shit._

"You should have told me, Barbara. Why did you help him?"

"Because he asked me to," Barbara said, sad again, and the words sent shivers down Bruce's back. He had heard them before, a few months back out of the mouth of a brash and rude, red-coloured Nightwing. Damn, Dick knew how to play each one of them.

"I wanted him to have someone he could be completely honest with when things got worse," she went on, and there were tears again, "but he wasn't, as it turns out."

"He hadn't accepted it himself," Bruce murmured, feeling his emotional walls coming down. God, this was exhausting. If just talking about it brought Bruce to his limits, what would happen if... no, it just wouldn't happen. Bruce wouldn't allow him to die.

"Where is Jason, by the way?" Babs asked suddenly, looking at the door, "shouldn't the hospital contact him?"

Bruce felt his intestines turn to ice at the memory of their argument only a few hours ago. God, now that he knew how much effort and thought Dick had put into bringing them together again, their screaming match seemed even more childish and stupid than before. Dick had wanted to make sure that they were there for each other when things went down, but all they had done was place the blame on each other..

"Bruce?" Barbara asked, troubled by the look on his face. She really was too smart for her own good.

"He was here," Bruce whispered, "but we had... a disagreement and.. I threw him out."

Babs stared at him for a second, at a loss for words, until she buried her face in her hands, sighing desperately.

"He blamed me for everything, how else should I react?" Even to his own ears, this sounded like something a 5-year-old would say. Barbara glared at him sharply.

"I warned him about this," she ran a soft hand down one of Dick's cheeks, "tried to make him see how hopeless it is to try to bring the two of you together.. you and Jason," she turned her full attention at Bruce, bitter and sad, "you really are two sides of one coin. You need each other to blame and fuel the other, otherwise you would have to face your own shortcomings. You deserve each other."

With that last, devastating sentence, Barbara grabbed the wheels of her chair and turned around, heading for the door.

"Barbara," Bruce called her, shocked by the speech she had just given and hurt by its implications.

She turned her head around but didn't stop. "I just hope he didn't hear anything of your argument. _He_ deserves better than that."

############ ################ #############

"Damian," Tim called, knocking at the door one last time. Again, there was no answer. "I'm coming in."

Damian sat on the windowsill, arms hugging his knees, never turning towards the door. Tim stepped in, placed a plate with sandwiches on the desk and then remained standing, unsure of how to proceed.

"You should eat something."

No answer.

"I promise I didn't poison them."

Not even a flinch, or the usual '-tt-'.

"I don't know when Alfred will return, and Bruce probably won't come back until..." Tim's voice failed before he could finish the sentence. Until what? _Don't go there. _

"I'm sorry we left you here alone," he said instead, because _apologizing to Damian_ was still easier than dealing with the emotional fall-out this night had been _again, _"things went so fast..."

He had never seen Bruce so tired, so shaken up. The man he had come to think of as his father hadn't even managed to look him into the eyes when he told him about Dick's condition. Tim had only gotten a short glimpse of his big brother, surrounded by machines that seemed to dwarf him, before he had fled the hospital. Called Barbara, because he knew that Bruce wouldn't. Tried to call Roy or Wally, but chickened out.

When he arrived at the manor again, he had been crying like a baby. Alfred just came out of Damian's room, so that cup passed him, thank God. He had been tired, emotionally exhausted and just wanted to shut out everything. But when he fell back on his pillows, he was unable to fall asleep, unable to ignore the pictures that appeared in front of his eyes.

So he found himself wandering around in the kitchen, making coffee for no apparent reason, just for the sake of doing something, and accidentally stumbled over Alfred who was just about to leave. He needed privacy, he said, looking older than Tim had ever seen him; and that scared him senseless.

Alfred was gone only seconds later, and Tim was wandering around the manor like a ghost, trying desperately not to think about what was happening at Gotham General right now, when he saw the ray of light that protruded under Damian's door.

"Alfred only drugged you because there wasn't anything else down in the cave. He only wanted to help us."

The room was dark, and the light that shone in from outside was sparse. Tim wasn't sure if it was just a trick to the eye or if Damian's cheeks really were wet, so he kept going.

"I'm calling Gotham Academy tomorrow to tell them I'm resigning from this term," because no way in hell would he be able to sit through school day after school day, while Dick was lying in the hospital and … _don't go there again._ "Do you want me to do the same for you?"

The little devil spawn was still not answering, not even looking at Tim, and under usual circumstances Tim would have lost his patience long ago. But this night had just been so fucking exhausting, and their little quarrels appeared so small and stupid compared to everything else. Plainly, Tim understood his little brother all too well. Sitting on the windowsill and sulking, maybe crying, seemed like a tempting reaction.

And after all, Damian loved Dick. There was no doubt about it in Tim's mind, so he knew that this whole thing was hitting the ex-assassin harder than he showed. And he was a kid. _"He's only ten,"_ Tim heard Dick's voice when he defended Damian, saw his eyes roll theatrically, and swallowed hard.

"I'm going to the hospital early tomorrow morning before the journalists show up." And damn, he was afraid of that. "Do you want to come along?"

To his relief, Damian nodded after a few tense moments. It wasn't much, but it was an answer. Tim felt a smile tug at his lips, the first in what felt like a lifetime.

"Try to get some sleep," he said before leaving, closing the door behind him softly. There were still a few hours left of the night, Tim's watch told him, and god knows he would need them tomorrow.

########### ################ ###################

Dick woke up a few hours later, after Barbara had left and Bruce had had some time to come to terms with the secrets and revelations he had been faced with.

He almost missed the twitching eye muscles and the faint moan since the doctor he was talking to on the phone had started to swear very loudly in Mandarin. They had gotten nowhere anyway, so Bruce simply hung up when he saw his son's eyes flutter.

With heavy lids that fell shut again and again, Dick needed a while to fully come to. Bruce, sitting on the chair beside the bed, held his breath until his son finally managed to blink at him slowly.

"...Bruce?" He asked with a faint voice, barely above a whisper.

"Hey, chum," Bruce answered, and gently placed a hand over one of the Dick's while he faked a smile. "You gave us quite a scare."

"Huh? Wha' happen'd?" Dick's words were slurred, and Bruce had to recall again that the fever hadn't broken yet. The confused, glassy eyes should have reminded him at once.

"You passed out in the bathroom," he answered after a few, thoughtful moments, in which Dick's eyelids had begun to drop again. Better going for a less bloody, less dramatic version, Bruce only added: "and now you're running a fever."

'Bathroom' must have triggered something, for Dick's heart rate increased, audible through the beeping of the EKG. Dick turned his head, surprised, and for the first time noticed his surroundings. His eyes fixed on the cumbersome dialysis machine on his left, and his glance followed the IV-lines that were still connected to the port in his forearm.

"Whazzat?" he asked after a few moments, glassy and red-rimmed eyes turning to Bruce, scared.

"It's a dialysis machine. Don't worry about it."

His words had the opposed effect, of course. On the EKG-screen, the pace started to increase again, and Dick's eyes widened thanks to the adrenaline that pumped through his body, making him fully aware of the situation. "Dialysis? Why?"

"There are problems with your kidneys, but we're dealing with it." He didn't exactly know _how_, but he would find a way.

"But.. I thought.." Dick was trying to heft himself up on his elbows now, trying to get a grip on the situation. Bruce pushed him back softly, afraid to mess with any of the countless tubes or EKG-sensors that were connected to his son.

"I know. It's okay, chum," he said reassuringly.

"No, Bruce," Dick was blinking rapidly again, fighting the exhaustion that this little action had procured already, "it's not okay, I -"

"I _know_, Dick," Bruce interrupted, not ready for this conversation and even more convinced that his feverish and drugged son wasn't ready either. "The doctor told us everything there is to know. Don't worry about it now."

"But..." Dick was breathing heavily now, fighting the sleepiness but losing eventually. His gaze returned to the machine beside him. "..then..._ why?_"

Why they were still keeping him alive? Against his wishes?

"Hey, look at me." Bruce swallowed down the lump in his throat, determined to keep his son calm. He reached over and patted Dick's hand, making his attention focus on him again. "Do you trust me?"

"Huh?"

"Do you trust me?"

"...yeah. Sure."

"Then trust me when I tell you not to worry about it. I have everything under control."

Dick didn't answer verbally, but squeezed back his hand after some seconds. Bruce's chest constricted painfully when he thought about the empty promise he had just made. He had nothing under control anymore, but he fought hard to gain it back.

He noticed how hard he had gripped his son's hand and released it, alarmed, but Dick didn't seem to have noticed anything. His breathing had slowed down again, in fact, and his eyelids dropped steadily.

"The others will be glad that you finally woke up," Bruce said quickly, trying to keep Dick awake for a few minutes longer.

"Where's Jason?" Dick asked and turned his head in the direction of the door.

"Oh, a certain Mr. _Cox_ was here, you just missed him."

_Oh, Dick..._ Bruce's heart pounded heavily against his chest. _Not even fully awake and already worrying about us. _He had confirmed his suspicions: Dick had changed his emergency contact to Jason to make sure that they would meet in the hospital as soon as anything happened. What he hadn't thought of, Bruce bet with bile rising in his throat, was that they'd just tear each other apart over responsibility and guilty consciences. _Again, _Barbara's voice echoed in the back of his mind.

"He was a wreck, and I send him home after a while," Bruce lied therefore, amazed how convincing the words sounded even to himself. "I don't need to worry about the two of you at the same time."

A small, relieved smile appeared on Dick's face, making Bruce shudder, before it turned sly. "Mr. Cox, huh?"

"Mr_ P. Cox_."

"Was he mad?"

"Furious."

"Good."

That being said, Dick's eyelids dropped fully, finally, and Bruce didn't dare to interrupt his sleep once again. When his son's breathing had become slow and deep, Bruce dared to let go of his hand without waking him up.

Silently, he made his way over to his laptop, stubbornness already winning over the sadness and fear. Dick couldn't die, they still had to chew him out for playing them like that. And where was the fun in that if he was not fully awake to appreciate it? No way. After all, Dick trusted him, he had just said it. And earlier Bruce already promised him that he wouldn't let him die.

It was just not a possibility.

Oracle's symbol appeared on the screen. She was online and receiving, but no video connection was available.

"O.," Bruce called, quiet, "D. just woke up."

"How is he?" She asked immediately.

"Tired, confused. Listen, I need you to do me a favour. I need you to send me all personal data you can find about the personnel of Gotham General's radiology, oncology and ICU. Nurses and doctors alike, everything you can find about their families, job issues, whatever."

-tbc-

*"Your research will be expensive, and an industrial investor would make it more attractive for other projects."

**medical explanations:**

**port- **a small appliance that is installed underneath the skin of a patient, with a catheter that connects the port to the vein. If such a port is installed, doctors and nurses don't have to search for suitable veins to stick needles in again and again – one designated place is chosen (usually lower arm or chest), and blood can be drawn or IV line can be applied there over and over again. Very common with cancer patients to make the chemotherapy more easily, or with dialysis patients for obvious reasons.

**dialysis-**If the kidneys won't work properly anymore thanks to renal failure, a patient has to undergo dialysis. I'm going to do that quick and dirty, because I have actually no idea how it works on molecular level (help, anyone?): A patient is hooked up to a **dialysis machine**, and the 'dirty' blood is carried into it, gets cleaned, and carried back into the patient body. The process involves diffusion of solutes across a semipermeable membrane (totally copied and pasted that from wikipedia). The process takes about 4 hours and is very (!) strenuous for the patient. Depending on the severity of the renal failure, it has to be done more or less often and maybe even on a long term basis (patients with irreparable kidney failure have to undergo dialysis three times a week!)

########### ############### ###########

_Babs! Finally! Damn, she deserved to appear finally. I'm sorry the first part of this chapter was so much blabla, but it needed to be done. And I figured that there's only one person besides Alfred or Leslie that could ever set Bruce straight, and that's Barbara! Now Bruce knows everything, all secrets are out... or are they? … (insert horrormovie music)_

_The line "You and Jason deserve each other" was one of the first ideas I had for this fic. I planned for Dick to say it to Bruce, but in the end it didn't fit into Dick's story line. And I know, Alfred leaving the babybats alone is totally OOC, but I needed to show how hard this hits him without giving him too much space.. he'll be back, don't worry!_

_With the next chapter the hot phase will begin... which will be fun for everyone involved, except maybe for Dick. Yeah, definitely not for Dick. But that's what you get for being my favourite._


	19. Chapter 18

LIFELINES

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

_-about a week later-_

Jason didn't believe that his mood could sink any lower, but then he recognized the_ fucking replacement_ on the other side of the door and was proven wrong.

Tim looked honestly surprised at the gun barrel that was pointed right at his face, and after he managed to pry his eyes away from the shiny weapon, he looked at Jason and slowly lifted his hands.

Jason huffed; as if the idiot in front of him would be any danger to him, armed or not.

"What are you doing here?" he barked after a moment of silence.

"I could ask you the same thing."

...Still a smart ass, even when only seconds away from getting a hole blown into his forehead. Just what he needed right now...

"I need to check out a few things, and I didn't know you were here," Tim offered after a while when Jason didn't answer. "The sooner you let me in, the sooner I'll be gone."

Not in the mood for a fight, Jason lowered the gun unwillingly and Tim visibly relaxed. Without another word he closed the door to Dick's apartment and disappeared into the kitchen. Jason was unsure what to do at first, but the sounds of clattering and swearing soon after made him curious.

Tim was sitting on the ground in front of the sink, fighting with the pipes and screws and swearing profoundly.

"You need to turn the screw into the other direction," Jason couldn't help but point out, grinning, "Didn't learn much manual craft in that fancy private school Daddy paid for, huh?"

Muttering curses under his breath, Tim shot him a dirty look, something between angry and embarrassed. "I always thought you were more cut out for the dirty work."

"Careful, shithead. What are you even doing?"

Tim paused for a second, looking at Jason with a calculating expression. "I found something in Dick's old blood samples that doesn't match with what I read about blood composition... But that's nothing you would care about, apparently..." he trailed of, shooting the older man an angry glare.

Jason swallowed hard. He had hoped to ignore _that_ subject. The maelstrom of emotion that bubbled up in his chest wasn't easy to suppress or figure out. He had needed a long time to accept that it was even there.

"So what?" he asked therefore, harsher than necessary, "Wouldn't you rather spend your time in the hospital, weeping and holding his hand?"

Tim's shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn around again. "We all deal with loss in different ways, Jason," he said quietly, while his hands started to tug and pull on some piece of the pipe. "Some cry. Some bury themselves in work. Some hide away in apartments and sulk."

The hint was so obvious that Jason couldn't help but growl. "What kind of loss are you talking about? He lied to all of us, played us like puppets!"

The anger returned full force, eating away at Jason even as he said those words. Dick had lied to them, to him. Had played his little game until he wasn't able to anymore. Jason remembered how he had coaxed him into playing Nightwing, that little sucker. While Jason had believed he was doing the right thing for the first time in ages, Dick had just manipulated him to satisfy his own guilty conscience.

And yet there he was, hiding away in the old apartment in Blüdhaven. He had spent some time here when Dick already had moved back to Gotham, still playing Nightwing despite not having any obligations to anymore. For whatever reason he had returned after his and Bruce's showdown in the hospital, upset and freaking _worried_ for the idiot's well-being.. only to learn about Dick's true condition and the game he had played the next day from Oracle.

Jason had been furious; the living room still lay in pieces from where he had torn through it like a hurricane. As he fell back into the armchair, panting and knuckles bleeding, he remembered when he had hefted his brother into just this piece of furniture on his first night as Nightwing. He couldn't decide if he had destroyed the rest of the room out of anger, or out of... something else.

For some reason Jason couldn't fathom, he hadn't left the apartment since, although he now wished he had. Seeing Tim fucking Drake walk in, keys dangling, was not on his list of things he liked to see.

Some metallic piece fell out of the pipework after Tim had finally managed to loosen it, and he stared at it flabbergasted. Picking it up and putting it into a plastic crime-scene bag, he turned to Jason again, a sad expression on his face.

"He lied to us, but only for our benefit."

When he stood up and walked past him, Jason took a good look at the kid's face. He was pale, and his eyes red. He had been crying a lot during the last days, surely.

"Don't tell me you're not offended. We spend weeks chasing non-existing criminals!"

Tim walked into the bathroom, Jason right at his heels. "Only to reconcile us. He meant well."

"Oh please, not those empty phrases."

"Now don't _you_ play innocent when it comes to lying for someone else's benefit."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Tim sat down in front of the sink of the bathroom, opening the pipes there, too. "You broke his elevator to make him come back to Gotham, remember?"

"Yeah, and fucking karma shot me like 20 minutes later!"

Oh yeah, and he had even been shot for the asshole's sake! If he hadn't been so goddamn worried about Dick the whole week back then, the bank robber wouldn't have managed to hit him. He had been hit in the chest – he could have died because his moronic brother had been too engulfed in his plan to risk executing it in Gotham, right under Daddybats' nose.

"For whatever reason, he cares about you, Jason..." Tim said, sober, pulling Jason out of his thoughts. "He's not doing well."

"No?" Despite everything Jason wanted to throw back at the replacement in front of him, he didn't manage to formulate more than that one syllable.

The thing that annoyed Jason the most, kept him on the edge constantly, was that he couldn't stop thinking about Dick. Couldn't stop caring, even though he felt betrayed and humiliated with every fiber of his body.

The teen in front of him stopped pulling and pushing at the pipes and sat back, sighing deeply. Some of the calm and collected facade disappeared when he shook his head.

"No, not at all. His kidneys are failing, and the fever won't lower since the leukemia is pumping more and more white blood cells into his body." Tim ran a shaking hand across his eyes. "His body is shutting down, Jay."

Jason noticed the nickname, but didn't know if the strange feeling in his stomach was correlated with it. There was a tight knot right under his chest, pushing against his diaphragm, making breathing harder than it should be.

"So what?" he muttered, unconvincing.

"_So what?_ He's dying!" Tim was on his feet now, angry, temper hitting the roof immediately. Jason watched in surprise how the teen was approaching him. So far Tim had tried to be the voice of reason in their clashes; now, he seemed to be on the edge, ready to explode any minute. **"**They're only giving him pain medication. Two weeks tops, the doc said."

"Tough luck." Jason could hear his own voice wavering. _Two weeks?_ "I told you I don't care."

"He does." Tim was closer now, red eyes only a few inches away from Jason's. "Bruce is at the end of his rope. Dick isn't even aware of his surroundings most of the time. Yesterday he started to talk in Romani!"

"Stuff it." Jason turned around now, determined to get out of Tim's way, but the fucker was following him,_ of course_, gnawing on Jason's carefully maintained control.

"He only spoke Romani with his parents!"

"For fuck's sake, what's your problem?!" Jason snarled, finally letting off some steam. "I swear I'll fucking shoot you if you don't shut up and get out!"

Tim stopped short, cold eyes glaring. Jason could see the muscles of his jaw working as he tried to swallow whatever comment lay on the tip of his tongue.

"Shit, Jason, I knew it," he spat out, "you are exactly the egotistical asshole I told him you were, but he still trusted you."

"_Trusted me?!_" All of Jason's self control was gone when the idiotic teenager hit home. "He used me to get what he wanted! If anything, I trusted _him_!"

"Are you fucking blind?!" There was a desperate notch in Tim's voice now, and Jason swore he had never before heard the little fucker curse like that. "He asked you to take over as Nightwing before I even knew something was wrong!"

Jason turned around and grabbed his jacket, the replacement on his heels.

"He would never give you Nightwing if he didn't trust you!"

"I don't need to hear all this shit coming out of your mouth."

The door slammed shut, and Jason could imagine the small smile on Tim's face only too visibly. Because the asshole knew exactly where he was going.

Time to get some answers while he still could.

############### ############### ###########

There was a small crowd blocking his entrance to room 04, and Jason realized with repugnance that one of the men was Bruce. Leslie Thompson was there, too, and Alfred stood behind two tall men in black suits.

They were talking about cancer, with some heavy dialects Jason couldn't place right away. Definitely something Slavic, but Jason had forgotten most of the Russian Bruce had forced him to learn, so he couldn't be too sure. Leslie shook her head tiredly, and then Alfred noticed him.

"Master Jason," he called, and headed towards him before Bruce could. They met halfway.

"What's going on?"

"Master Bruce is consulting different scientists and doctors from around the world," the old man said, tiredness and sadness evident in his voice. "He is determined to find a treatment for Richard."

"A bit late, isn't he?"

Alfred shot him a look that made Jason regret ever opening his mouth. "We didn't know anything about the severity of the situation. And before you place the blame on someone else, young man, you should think about your own involvement in this."

So Bruce had told Alfred about their little shouting match. Awesome. Though Jason was sure that his 'own involvement in this' was free of any blame, Bruce had been right when he pointed out that Jason hadn't been around very much after Dick left Blüdhaven. He had visited during chemo installments, but when those stopped, he hadn't called or contacted his brother in the manor, too resentful about everything the building meant to him. He hadn't exactly covered himself in glory either, so with blaming Bruce for not noticing anything, he had basically shot himself in the foot. Not that he would ever admit it.

"I'm here now, aren't I?" He therefore grunted out, but Alfred smiled to his relief and took the young man by the upper arm, leading him towards the door.

"And that's all that matters. Master Richard will be delighted to see you."

Awkwardly, Bruce and Jason avoided looking at each other while they stood side by side. Alfred didn't just open the door, but knocked on it gently.

"Master Damian asked for a bit of privacy," he explained when Jason raised an eyebrow.

So the Demon Spawn was here, too. Jason's day was just getting better and better, the list of people he didn't want to see was almost checked off completely – only the Joker was missing. And with Jason's luck, he would be standing right in that room, leaning over his brother with a crowbar in hand.

And _woah_, that was the stuff nightmares were made of. Jason shuddered involuntarily, scolding himself for letting Dick get past his defenses so easily.

The door opened just then, and the grumpy, bad-tempered face of everyone's favourite little brother appeared behind it.

"What is it?" he asked, and Jason swore that he had never heard anyone ask a simple question like that in such a posh way.

"Master Jason here would like to visit Master Richard."

Damian's glare wandered up to Jason, not even trying to hide his discontent and annoyance. His hair was ruffled, one side of his face was red... and there was an imprint of something that looked very much like a shirt button on his cheek, Jason noticed with gleeful satisfaction.

"What do you want, Todd?"

"I think it's my turn to cuddle, teddybear."

Damian turned a bright red immediately, and Jason pushed past him without so much as looking at the little sucker. He heard Alfred whisper something and then royal huffing, but his attention was already drawn to the bed.

The bedclothes where Damian lay were wrinkled, and that was pretty much the only visible proof of life on the hospital bed. Dick was sound asleep, probably drugged to the eyeballs. There were various tubes and machines connected to him, including an EKG without audio.

Jason had expected a more drastic scene, something with breathing tubes and 24/7 surveillance by a nurse, until he remembered that Dick was already past all those measures. _Crap._

"He hasn't woken up today," Alfred piped up beside him, sober. "Sometimes we need to reduce the medicine flow -"

Alfred stopped short since Jason had already grabbed his brother's shoulders and shook him, none too gently. "Hey, dickhead, wake up!"

It worked, Dick's eyelids twitched and an unhappy moan escaped his lips. Jason sat on the chair beside the bed, waiting for him to fully wake up.

"Don't upset him," Alfred warned from behind, "we don't need the fever to rise even more."

Jason nodded mechanically, while Dick's eyes fluttered open and traveled through the room, until his gaze landed on his brother. Jason could feel his heart starting to beat faster.

"Heya," he said intelligently.

Dick only blinked at him, glassy eyes wandering across his face, over his clothes, without any trace of recognition.

"Oh come on," Jason called out, half amused, "I haven't been absent _that_ long."

"Jason..." Alfred warned.

"...Hood?" Dick mumbled, narrowing his eyes in a confused way.

"The one and only Red Hood. How have you been, Dickiebird? Is the hospital treating you ok?"

But Dick didn't seem to listen to him at all. His feverish gaze flickered around the room, from EKG to the infusion bags above him, and the green jags on the EKG screen started to go faster.

"..Dick?"

Suddenly, Dick tried to get up, to heft himself up on his elbows, but before Jason or Alfred could prevent him from going further, he flinched hard and fell back on the pillows. A pained sigh escaped his lips, and his hands traveled to the small of his back.

_Probably his kidneys,_ Jason thought while his gaze wandered from his brother's eyes, screwed shut in pain, to the EKG line that was going crazy over there.

He had just calmed down enough to sit back when Dick forced his eyes to open again and glared at him accusingly.

"Did you shoot me?" he pressed out between clenched teeth.

Almost falling out of his chair, Jason's eyes widened in shock and he opened his mouth to retort, but Alfred appeared beside him and shoved him out of the way.

"That's enough," he said, turning the little wheel on one of the I.V. lines to allow a stronger flow. Dick stared at him, puzzled, but every protest was cut short when Alfred laid a gentle hand over the younger man's eyes. Not strong enough to fight the darkness and the drugs, Dick was asleep again in only a few seconds, and the green jags of the EKG slowed down again to a regular heart rate.

Jason was out the door in the blink of an eye, almost running straight into Bruce and Damian, before Alfred caught up to him and grabbed his upper arm.

"He isn't aware of his surrou-"

"He thought I shot him!?"

Jason didn't really know why, but Dick's question hurt. Badly. Thinking about how that might have been the last time they'd talk hurt even more.

"Son," Alfred tried to soothe him down now, laying both hands on his shoulders, "he's been running a fever of 104 for five days."

"But.. why would he –"

"What's going on here?"

Bruce appeared beside them, looking worried and suspiciously at Jason.

"Master Richard didn't recogni-"

"He thought I fucking shot him!" Jason didn't know why he told his former mentor, but it burst out of him with all anger and hurt plainly visible.

Bruce had the decency to look surprised, at least. But then he furrowed his eyebrows, trying to remember something. "He probably remembered that time he tried to keep you from killing that rapist at the Gotham bays and you shot him instead."

Jason flinched, stared at Bruce with wide eyes, before he pivoted on his heels and just walked away.

############## ############## ########

Bruce looked puzzled at Jason's retreating back. When he turned around again, shrugging, he was faced with a very dismissive looking Alfred, who glared daggers at him.

"What?"

"I doubt that was what he wanted to hear, sir."

"... I don't understand."

"Clearly." Alfred walked past him, never changing that disparaging expression, amplified by his ironic dialect. "You go back to Master Richard, I'll take care of Jason."

With that he was gone, leaving Bruce alone to reevaluate what had just happened. Confused, he craned his neck to see Damian disappearing in Dick's room again, and he followed him, deep in thought.

Of course he had noticed how Jason's expression had changed after he suggested to which episode Dick had been referring. And thinking back now, it had been a while since Jason had looked anything other than taunting or angry at something he said. The look he had shot him was shocked, almost as if he had slapped him...

And then Alfred's words... _What_ did Jason want to hear, then? Since when did _Jason_ expect him to say anything?

He was pulled out of his thoughts when his cell phone rang. Sighing, he grabbed it, determined to reject the call when he recognized Tim's number on the display. He furrowed his brows; the last week had been tough for Tim, and the teen had kept to himself for most of the time.

"Hello? Tim?" he murmured into the speaker therefore, not wanting to disturb his sleeping son or Damian, who was staring at Dick in deep thought. When he heard Tim's name, however, the ex-assassin glanced up sharply.

"_Bruce?"_ Tim's voice sounded stressed, hurried. _"You need to come home at once."_

Bruce worried immediately. Tim didn't call out of unfounded panic; that was more a Dick thing. With a pang in his chest, he turned to watch his eldest.

"What is it?"

"_I can't tell you over the phone, just come home."_

"Tim. I can't just –"

"_Bruce! Just do it! And bring Damian!"_The teen sounded close to tears now, a sound Bruce had become quite acquainted with over the last week. _"I can't talk to you now, I still need to find Jason."_

"Jason?" As if on cue, Bruce glanced out the window, down into the hospital yard five stories below, where a tiny Jason was smoking and crossing his arms in a brooding manner. Alfred appeared right beside him and, to Bruce's utter astonishment, wrapped an arm around Jason's shoulders as he sat beside him. He couldn't make out if they were talking or not, but Jason didn't shake off the arm, didn't push the butler away, but leaned into the embrace ever so slightly.

Bruce stared at the scene flabbergasted. Jason accepted consolation? Touch?

_Alfred.._ he thought with a bitter feeling spreading through his chest. Surely he would reject _him_, with a jeer and a hurtful comment. But _Alfred_ had always been like a rock for Jason – for all his kids, actually – and through all the ups and downs in their relationship, Alfred had never stopped caring for Jason. And vice versa, it seemed.

"_Bruce!"_

"What? Sorry, Tim. Jason is here."

"_He's – ...really? That's good, bring him to the cave!"_

"What? Tim, what is going on?"

"_I found something, please just come and bring the others."_

"I can't just leave Dick alone." Paranoid, Bruce couldn't shake off the feeling that the nurses and doctors would just disconnect Dick from all the drugs and machines if nobody was there to watch over him.

"_Wait."_ There was the clattering sound of typing on the other side of the line, then a relieved sigh, _"Okay, you can leave Alfred and Damian. There are recent probes of their blood, thank God."_

"Blood samples? Tim, what are you talking about?"

"_I..."_ Tim's voice was wavering,_ "I found something in Dick's old blood samples. And his apartment... You.. you need to look at this, Bruce. _Please_."_

"... I'll get Jason."

-tbc-

_Ladies and Gentlemen, it's twist time!_

_Sorry for the delay. University has a way of coming up with work when you least expect it. If the betaing is sloppy thing time, it's all my fault – I didn't want to wait another day to update. The next installment might need a bit longer too, since next week will be busy and there is a lot of research necessary. And we can't have a poorly researched twist, can we? :D_


	20. Chapter 19

_Medical termini will be explained at the end of chapter (very important, please read!)_

_Warning: I suck at chemistry. And biology. Also, please don't kill me._

LIFELINES

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The drive to the manor was strange; the uncomfortable silence was awkward, yet comfortingly familiar at the same time.

Bruce glanced over to Jason, who was looking stubbornly out of the window and had his arms crossed firmly. It reminded him of the dozens of times he had been called to the school principal or the police station to pick up the rebellious teenager. Like before, the young man beside him didn't know what to expect of Bruce, always on the edge, oozing defiance with every fiber of his body.

It made a small smile appear on Bruce's face, but it felt out of place, and that pulled him back to reality.

The reality in which he had to leave his fading son in the hospital to bring his other, wayward and unwilling, son to the Batcave at Tim's insistence. Something about blood, and apparently he needed probes of his and Jason's.

Bruce swallowed drily and wondered what the hell he would do if any of the scenarios in his head would come true.

When they pulled into the driveway of the manor, Jason tensed visibly. He shot Bruce a dirty look, still mad that he couldn't just tag behind on his bike and enter the Batcave directly. Bruce had insisted on driving in his vehicle, to make sure Jason wouldn't change his mind. Tim had sounded so serious and worried, and he had promised to bring the second Robin.

"What happened to all the Christmas decorations?" Jason asked suddenly, when Bruce was fidgeting with the keys to the front door.

There were chains of lights piled beside the door, and a few metres away a sad Christmas tree lay in the grass, still fully clad in tinsel and Christmas glitter balls. Bruce allowed himself a moment to take in the depressing view – he hadn't been at the manor for a few days now.

"I guess nobody is in mood to celebrate," he murmured absentmindedly. "Alfred must have taken down the decoration with Tim's help."

The door swung open suddenly, revealing a very fraught Tim, pale and shaking.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked and grabbed Jason's arm, pulling the protesting elder man in.

Bruce had been worried about that part of the tour, didn't know how Jason would react to walking through the house he had partially grew up in, but Tim's method spared him the trouble. While Jason was swearing in a way that would give Alfred a heart attack, Tim had a firm grasp on his wrist and the three of them reached the cave in record time.

Down there, Jason managed to yank his arm away and rubbed the sore wrist with a grim expression, but Tim paid him no mind and hurried over to the med table.

"Tim, what is going on?" Bruce asked with his Batman voice as he took in the state of the laboratory with trepidation. There were several filled blood bags on the table beside a microscope and at least five or six books, all opened at specific pages with Post-it notes all across of them.

"I need to examine your blood," the teen explained tersely, not even looking at Bruce but heading straight at Jason. "You're first."

"Like hell!" Jason stepped aside when his younger brother approached him, eyes fixed on the needle Tim was holding.

"I don't have any blood samples from you!"

"Don't come near me with that thing!"

Bruce stepped between the two of them before anyone could be strangled with the IV line and grabbed the equipment Tim had collected to draw blood.

"Jason, do as he says." Jason's expression darkened when the equipment was shoved into his arms, but he made his way over to the next seat. "And you," he grabbed the anxious teenager at the shoulders, "tell me what's going on, for God's sake."

He nodded after a quick glare into Jason's directions and, satisfied with what he saw there, guided Bruce over to the med table.

"I've spent the last few days researching bone marrow tissue," Tim began, while beginning to reorder the mess at the table and then fixed another drop of blood under the microscope. "And I reconsidered autologous hematopoietic stem cell transplantation. You know, same HLA types and -"

"Woah, Sherlock, slow down!" Jason interrupted irritably. "What language are you speaking in?"

"...Sorry, getting carried away here." Tim took a deep breath and visibly got a grip on himself. "There are two ways of bone marrow transplantation – allogenic if there are cells from a donor, and autologous if you use cells from the patient. Obviously you can't use Dick's tissue or blood right now anymore, but I wanted to check with the blood we have stored here..."

"Wait, you could get the cells he needed out of his old blood samples?" Jason was baffled, a spark of hope in his eyes.

Bruce stepped in quickly, not wanting them to get up their hopes in vain. "Sometimes it's possible, but there isn't nearly enough in storage. I checked a few weeks ago."

Tim nodded, focusing on Bruce. "Did you look at the samples closely?"

"No."

Tim stepped away from the microscope, motioning for Bruce to take a look. "This is fourteen months old. About eight months before he got diagnosed. Notice something?"

Bruce crouched down to look through the lenses, and furrowed his brows only a few seconds later.

"There is something in it beside the usual blood components..."

"It's hydroquinone." Tim slipped another sample under the lenses. "Twelve months old, six months before he got diagnosed. There is hydroquinone and –"

"Phenol?" Bruce finished for him, recognizing the structure of the chemical. There was a bad feeling forming in his stomach; he didn't like where this was going.

"Exactly. I took a blood count from that sample, there aren't enough white blood cells. That condition is called aplastic anemia and is a precursor to leukemia."

"So he has been sick longer than we thought?" Jason piped up, and Bruce couldn't help but notice the pronoun. _We_.

"Yes, but the leukemia didn't break out until about five months from that point. But that's not what I'm trying to get at."

"It's the phenol and the hydroquinone," Bruce muttered. "Where does it come from?"

Sighing, Tim grabbed a book and held it up for Bruce. There was a big picture with a chemical equation. "They are metabolites of the same chemical."

"Benzene," Bruce whispered, closing his eyes. "...it's carcinogenic..."

"But only after long-term exposure. How could that have happened?!"

Tim turned to Jason again and started to detach the needle. Jason didn't protest this time, waiting for Tim to answer his question.

"That's the point," Tim's voice was faint now, and his hands were shaking. When Jason pressed a small piece of cloth against the puncture site, Tim made his way over to the med table again and grabbed a crime-scene bag that had been covered by one of the books.

"I found these in his apartment. I couldn't stop thinking about the benzene, so I decided to check. Long-time exposure without him noticing anything would have had to happen through water uptake or inhalation... and I found several of these, either in the pipe work of the sinks or the ventilation system."

Bruce grabbed the bag, turning it over and watching the device closely. "What is this?"

"I'm not sure. It's not part of a regular pipe work... They are newer than the rest of the pipes. And I found traces of benzene in them."

Jason and Bruce's heads snapped around at that last bit of information. Tim looked as if he might start crying when he pronounced the next sentence.

"Someone must have installed them intentionally."

"Oh _shit_," Jason breathed, breaking the silence. "Holy fucking shit."

"But..." Bruce's mind was going at full blast, desperate to let no emotions seep through. "Who would do something like that?"

"I don't know," Tim whispered, unable to look at the other two again, "there aren't any finger prints I could work with. But they were in his pipes... probably installed with a routine reparation."

"I remember him mentioning something about maintenance work last year..."

"It doesn't make sense," Jason growled. "Why would anyone want to infect Dick with cancer?"

Bruce's stomach dropped at that notion, and his carefully constructed calmness slipped away. To think that someone might have done that on purpose... Images of his son – in the hospital bed, after and during chemo, unconscious in the bathroom – appeared in front of his eyes, and Bruce could feel the bile rising in his throat. How could anyone deliberately want Dick to go through that?

"Not cancer, not necessarily," Bruce corrected Jason. "Benzene can also attack the liver, the heart, etc.."

"No, it's cancer," Jason objected with certainty, and Bruce and Tim looked at him surprised. "Think about it; someone invaded his flat to install it. If anyone wanted to kill him they could have used another chemical. Strychnine, arsenic..."

He was right. "And there's no need to take such a risk with the devices if someone wanted to simply poison him. Nightwing always fights close combat; there are many ways to inject him with poison..."

"I don't think this was directed against Nightwing..." Tim's voice was small and fragile, and when Bruce turned around, he averted his gaze to the ground. "It wouldn't make sense, you just said it. I.. I think someone targeted Dick personally, and that's why I need to check your blood samples."

"You mean..." Bruce didn't want to think that through.

"Damian, Alfred and my samples are clean. I still need a recent sample of your blood." Tim turned to Jason, "You're officially dead and anyone who wanted to target the Waynes wouldn't target you. But you have spent a lot of time in his apartment lately."

Jason paled visibly and stared at the puncture site. "But you said the devices only carried traces..."

"But I don't know for how long. Bruce," Bruce's head jerked around to look at Tim. "Do you remember anything strange happening since Dick got sick?"

"What do you mean?" Bruce knew very well what Tim meant, but his insides turned to ice anyway. Dick had no influence, no power or money. He was partially the heir of the Wayne Empire, but that money wasn't in his bank account yet, and the money he inherited from his parents had long ago been spent to secure the future of Haley's Circus. Dick's job as police officer hadn't exactly earned him a fortune. His son's greatest prestige was still his connection to Bruce Wayne.

"I don't remember any blackmail or threats in the last 18 months..." he said faintly, still trying to deny that Dick had to suffer so much because of him. _Oh God.._

"Did you donate money to some cancer charity or anything like that?"

"No, I..." Something occurred to him, "I only pumped more money into Wayne Industries' R&D. Into the medicine division."

"With what assignment?" Jason was deep in thought.

"To try to manufacture bone marrow tissue with Dick's tissue characteristics... I don't see how anyone other than Dick could benefit from-"

"Wait." Jason was standing now, eyes wide. "The medicine department of R&D?" He swallowed hard and stared at Bruce, making a shiver run down the older man's spine. "Isn't that where you keep Nora Fries?"

Bruce's heart nearly stopped, but Tim whirled around and started to type furiously away on the keyboard of the Batcomputer. A picture of the frozen Nora appeared, along with several links to mission reports connected to her.

"Yes, she's still there. What are you trying to get at, Jason?"

"What illness does she have?"

Tim clicked at one of the links, and a lot of writing, scanned medical reports and charts filled the screen. The teen needed a moment to find what he was looking for, and then he answered with a hollow voice that echoed through the cave.

"CML. Chronic myeloid leukemia."

There was silence – long, shocked silence, during which they all stared at the three letters on the screen.

"It's not the same type Dick has..." Bruce objected weakly, his voice barely a whisper.

Tim's hands were pressed against the table, giving him support. "But she needs a bone marrow transplant and there's none available.."

The numbness in Bruce retreated, leaving him with an awful feeling in his chest and the urge to throw up. This couldn't be,_ it just couldn't be..._

"He couldn't know that Dick would need one."

"But the chances were high," Tim's voice broke, and Bruce saw how he furiously wiped away some tears. "Benzene-induced leukemia destroys the bone marrow's DNA, and he has a rare ancestry.. everyone knows Dick's background."

_Circus brat. Gypsy scum. _The high society and tabloids had had a field day when Bruce announced his intent to take in a boy from 'the lower classes'. Dick's ethnicity had been topic of more than one party for years to come.

"Think about it!" Tim suddenly shouted and whirled around, teary eyed and shell-shocked. "Freeze is a molecular biologist, he knew exactly what he was doing! He has a lab, and money to build those devices!"

Bruce closed his eyes, trying to block out reality. He couldn't accept this; couldn't face that Dick was a victim of one of Batman's foes, only because he had made some fatal decision years ago.

"He had waited until he could single Dick out," Tim wheezed, "he couldn't risk infecting you, and Dick is the only one who moved out. And then he only needed to wait for some maintenance work to pay a few workers to slip the devices in."

"I forgot about her..." Bruce whispered, glancing up at the picture of Nora Fries. "R&D hasn't worked on her case for years now..."

"But curing your son would result in curing her." Tim finished for him, bitter now.

They stayed silent for a long time, engulfed in their own depressing trains of thought. Bruce couldn't stop seeing Dick in his inner eye, lying in that hospital bed pale and weak. Every time he had brushed his teeth, cooked or turned on the air conditioner... _Oh God.._

"Where's Jason?" Tim's faint voice made him snap back to the present. He turned around to where the second Robin had been standing the last time he saw him, but he wasn't there. In fact, he wasn't anywhere in the cave.

They had been too occupied, too shocked to notice him slipping out of the cave minutes ago.

-tbc-

**Medical explanations:**

**Benzene exposure:** Benzene is a carcinogenic chemical. This means that (long-time) exposure to a living body results in a cancerous reaction. It heavily affects the bone marrow, resulting in conditions like leukemias, aplastic anemia, and other abnormalities in blood or marrow. Long-term exposure always results in leukemia. **Why? ** Benzene in the body decomposes to various metabolites, such as phenol, hydrochinone and catcheol. **They accumulate in the bone marrow and affect the pluripotent stem cells** that are supposed to develop into the usual blood components. This condition is called aplastic anemia. After long-term exposure, the metabolites in the marrow **block the mitosis of the marrow cells, which is a mutagenic effect.** This is cancer: cells mutate and spread out.

**IMPORTANT NOTE****: **The metabolites of benzene degrade after a while! Dick's doctors therefore didn't do sloppy work: there wasn't anything for them to find anymore, because the devices that poisoned him had been 'empty' for a while when the leukemia broke out. Tim found the metabolites in old samples, when Dick was still under constant exposure.

**CML/ chronic myeloid leukemia:** In a nutshell: It's also a type of leukemia that affects the bone marrow cells. But in contrast to AML (Dick's type), CML doesn't 'just happen', there is a chromosomal translocation ("Philadelphia chromosome") in the genes of the patient that will result in the onset of the illness sooner or later (→ 'chronic').

################# ################### #############

_Like the twist? :D You all hate me now, I know. But it was planned like that from the very beginning, word of honor! _

_Some of you will have a fit about my take on Nora and Mr. Freeze. It's not exactly cannon, yes. But I read everything I could about them, only to find that there are many versions of Nora's story. Sometimes she's dead, sometimes she's still frozen, sometimes she is 'Lazara', and so on and so on. Her illness hasn't been defined most of the time; in the New 52 it's a heart disease. But I'm ignoring most of the New 52 here anyway and take my liberties with the Batverse, as you all have noticed by now (No Talons, ages of the characters, Wally exists, the titans are still buddies, Babs is still paralyzed, etc...). I hope you don't mind _this_ liberty too much. In here, I have her frozen in one of Wayne Industries' facilities, with a terminal stage of CML._

_Please tell me what you think, I'm terribly excited about your reactions :D. There will be a longer A/N at the end of the next chapter in which I will respond to some of your reviews and ideas (long overdue! Some of you wrote brilliant suggestions about a cure or cause of illness). So if there is anything you don't get or noticed, please tell me!_

_Also: any ideas where Jason might be? :)_


	21. Chapter 20A

_**A/N**: Hey everyone, sorry again for the wait. Germany has morphed into one huge block of ice, and guess who got sick at the first opportunity? I can't really concentrate on writing right now and the mid-terms are looming again, so I decided to split chapter 20 into two parts. Which totally sucks because it's super-important for Jaybird, but I guess it's better than waiting longer :/. But since my beta is as fast as the Flash and the second part is shorter too, I think part 2 could be online in only a few days... Depending on my snot-level ;)._

_On an unrelated (and completely hint-less) note: I miss Dickiebird's POV :(. He was so easy to write.._

**Warnings: There is some graphic violence in this chapter! If you don't want to read it, send me a PM and I tell you everything you need to know.**

LIFELINES

CHAPTER TWENTY - PART 1/2

Freeze was curled into a tight ball, arms wrapped around his face and the collar of his broken suit to block the punches and stop the warmth from creeping further into his body.

With a bloody hand, Jason grabbed the pitiful figure beneath him and pulled him up, only to tear away one of the arms and land a mighty blow to the villain's face once again, watching him fall down in a shaking heap of pathetic scum.

Jason could have ripped off the fabric of the cryosuit, could have watched how the bastard in front of him slowly warmed up and burned from the inside, until his inner organs failed one after another. It would have been agonizing, just what Freeze deserved. Slow and painful, exactly what the asshole had put Dick through, but it wasn't enough.

It wasn't enough to satisfy the burning rage inside Jason that made his vision blur at the edges and his heart race. So instead, he grabbed the respiratory mask on the table beside him and forced it over Freeze's mouth once again, blowing frozen air into his lungs.

Freeze gulped down the air greedily, but Jason ripped the mask away again and rammed his knee into Freeze's solar plexus. The villain's hands shot downwards to his midsection automatically, leaving Jason free to bash fist after fist against his face.

It didn't help – the anger wouldn't decrease. It was all-consuming. It grew and grew with every punch, every kick. The dull sound of his rhythmic punching nearly worked Jason into a trance, only interrupted when he saw a patch of too-pink skin under all the blood that reminded him to use the respiratory mask again.

Jason didn't know how long they were doing this; time had completely lost its value right after he burst into the lab. They knew about Freeze's whereabouts – after all, the villain had been quiet and peaceful for a while now... or so they thought.

Jason clenched his teeth, saw Dick crouching in front of the toilet before his inner eye, and rammed his elbow into Freeze's already broken nose.

He had arrived with the promise of painful revenge, but a small, damnable voice in the back of his head that sounded too much like his fifteen-year-old Robin persona had asked for proof. _Don't jump to conclusions_, it echoed Bruce's mantra, _always look for evidence. _He had been pissed with that part of his unconscious for creeping back, with Dick for coaxing it out again, but all that was soon overshadowed by that all-consuming anger that bubbled up when he burst into the room and his eyes landed on a newspaper article.

_"Wayne heir diagnosed with leukemia!"_ the heading said, and an older photo of Dick was printed underneath it. The article was carefully cut out and clipped to the wall above Freeze's lab table.

It was all Jason needed to lose that bit of self-control he had maintained since Nora Fries' picture appeared on the screen in the Batcave, and with a battle cry he had lunged himself at Mr. Freeze, who didn't even know what hit him.

After a few punches the thick glass of the cryohelmet cracked and burst, and intrigued Jason watched how Freeze gasped and moaned while he was unconsciously picking out the shards of glass that stuck in his hand.

It was good to see Freeze in pain. To see him try to unsuccessfully wiggle his way out from under Jason, and to see him gag every time he drew in a burning breath. Of course Freeze could breathe air at room temperature, but it made his throat and lungs defrost – an agonizing process.

But Jason needed more. Before he knew what happened, he had started to throw punch after punch, kick after kick at the pathetic figure, and the sound of cracking bones lured him into other, terrifying memories that mixed with pictures of his brother during chemo, and Jason lost himself in his rage.

Freeze needed to suffer, he needed to feel the same pain Dick had felt for all those months; Jason didn't know how to do that, but couldn't stop at the same time.

He was just about to smash Freeze's skull into the wall, with the full intention to break bones, when he was suddenly yanked backwards with almost superhuman strength. He could make out a swirl of motion, black and gray, before he hit the ground unceremoniously.

Batman was here. And he was pissed.

It took a second for Jason to understand that the angry, pain-promising scowl on Bruce's face wasn't directed at him. Indeed, the vigilante didn't even seem to notice him anymore, having turned towards Mr. Freeze and grabbed the collar of his suit.

Mesmerized, Jason watched how Batman raised one hand and sent a teeth-crunching blow into Freeze's desperate face. It was almost happening in slow-motion; Freeze was whining, and in a magical moment Jason's heartbeat, loud in his ears, synchronized with the dull sound of Batman's punches.

Jason watched, hypnotized.

And then Batman hauled up Freeze to his knees, against the wall, and held out one hand into Jason's direction.

"Gun," he barked.

Jason didn't react, didn't understand.

"Give me your gun!" Batman yelled, and Freeze started to wail deplorably through the blood and snot that covered the pulp that had once been his face.

Slowly, Jason reached for his gun and handed it over. He was shaking violently, he realized, and the handle of the gun was smeared with blood, but he didn't know if it was Freeze's or his.

He was still sitting where he had landed earlier, and watched how Batman, Bruce, grabbed the berretta. His heart was pounding against his chest painfully as the severity of the situation crashed down on him.

Batman was going to kill Freeze.

Bruce was going to kill.

This was better than anything Jason could have done to the bastard. Batman killing was... more than a nightmare coming true, it was everything Gotham's villains feared and more. It was just what Freeze deserved.

Eagerly, Jason stared with wide eyes at the scene in front of him. Batman rammed down the handle of the gun against Freeze's temple and then let go of him. The villain slumped down, unconscious. This was not what Jason wanted. His blood froze when Batman gripped the gun with the other hand and, with a flick of the wrist, let the bullets hit the ground.

It took the former Robin a few moments to remember how to move, but then the adrenaline kicked it.

"No!" he screamed and lunged at Batman, slamming into the man full-force to push him away. "What are you doing?!"

"Jason!" Batman shouted, making Jay realize that he wasn't even wearing his mask. It didn't matter, though, the only witness was going to die tonight.

Jason hauled the defenseless figure up again and wrapped his hands around Freeze's throat, squeezing. Batman was beside him in an instant and wrestled the villain out of his grasp, cryo-respiratory mask ready.

"Stop. _Now__,_" he growled when Jason wouldn't let go. With a powerful hit against his shoulder, the younger man was once again yanked away from the villain.

"You're saving him?!" Jason screamed furiously, watching how Batman turned his head to probably look for a spare glass helmet. "Don't you get it?"

"He's not worth it," the man whispered, a pained expression flickering over the cowl.

"He did this to Dick! You remember him, right? The one who's lying in a hospital bed now and can barely breathe on his own?"

Batman clenched his teeth, grip tightening around Freeze's collar. Jason could see the conflict in the way Bruce's muscles flexed, but it was nothing, _nothing_, compared to what Jason felt.

The former Robin stepped towards Batman again and shoved his chest, directing his anger at the familiar target. "Are you kidding me? Don't you remember the chemo? He deserves to die!"

"Yes, he does," Bruce's voice was weak and pained and threw Jason off balance almost as much as the words did. "But I can't make exceptions, Jason."

Jason stared at him, stunned, and then what happened hit him. With such force that he stumbled backwards, desperately trying to bring distance between himself and his former mentor... His former mentor, who was staring at the villain at his feet with undisguised hatred and then kicked him in the chest.

"I can't make exceptions," he repeated, more to himself than to anyone else.

And Jason stared at him. A single phrase had captured his attention, turning over and over in his mind.

Bruce didn't kill Freeze.

Dick was going to die a horrible, painful death after months of suffering because this asshole was crazy, and_ Bruce didn't kill Freeze_.

He couldn't make exceptions.

Not even for Dick.

_'It's not true, Jay. I wish I could make you see it.'* _- Richard's words echoed in his mind, conjuring up the image of Dick sitting on that living room couch, knees drawn against his chest, stupidly long, raven hair in place, and sad. Sad for his brother, who refused to see the truth.

Another picture: Dick without hair or strength in that hospital bed, surrounded by heavy machinery and unable to remember Jason's name.

He had been so sure over the last few years; after everything else had lost all meaning and consistency, one truth shone brightly: Bruce loved Dick, more than he ever loved Jason. Because if he loved Jason, he wouldn't have so much as hesitated before ripping the Joker's head off. He would have done it if Dick and Jason had switched places. Or so he had thought.

He was wrong.

Jason snapped back to awareness at the sound of Batman's voice ordering the police to the lab to take care of Freeze. When he turned his gaze to the shell-shocked young man beside him, Jason couldn't take it.

He turned around and left.

-tbc-

_* This quote goes back to Chapter 6_


	22. Chapter 20B

LIFELINES

CHAPTER TWENTY- PART 2/2

_-a few hours later-_

Jason ended up, of course, at the hospital.

After driving around on the Replacement's stolen bike for hours, freezing in the cold air but unable to numb the emotional whirlwind in his chest, he had given up. He didn't want to return to his shitty hide-out in Gotham, with its second-hand furniture and broken TV. Dick's apartment in Blüdhaven was completely out of the question – Jason didn't believe he could ever so much as open its door without thinking about poisoned pipes.

Only when a nurse called out to him worriedly did Jason remember that he was still covered in Freeze's blood. His knuckles hurt, too. Maybe he broke them; he had been punching pretty hard, after all.

He disappeared when the nurse turned away from him for a second, climbing through the window of a comatose patient's room back into the night. He knew how to reach Dick's room in a less orthodox style, but when he crouched on that windowsill he was suddenly unsure of how to proceed.

What did he want in Dick's hospital room? Jason didn't think he could bear watching Dick lying motionless on that bed. What would he tell him if his brother woke up and saw all the blood Jason was covered in? Jason shuddered at the notion of telling him about Freeze. Or would Dick just assume that he had shot someone again?

In the end, Jason ended up on the roof top of the hospital, sitting on the edge and staring into nothing. The mess in his head that represented the years since his revival was huge, full of lies and pain, and Jason didn't know where to start, even if he wanted to.

Soft steps appoached him, pulling him out of his thought, and he craned his neck to see Damian a few metres away.

"Todd," he said tonelessly, "You didn't kill Freeze?"

"Batman stopped me."

So Bruce had been talking to the Devil Spawn, and probably told them the whole story. Jason wondered where Alfred was, how he had taken it. The newest Robin in front of him looked as arrogant as ever, even with unkempt hair and in _socks_. ...A sly smile spread over Jason's face. It must have been cuddling time again.

Damian made that little '-tt-' sound when the older man didn't proceed. "Freeze is in Arkham's special cell. Father called in some favour from Gordon to get him arrested. He should be dead, though. He deserved it."

Jason felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Although he knew of Damian's assassin past, it was just not right for a ten-year-old to utter such a statement. Jason blinked at the kid beside him, trying to find any evidence of sarcasm or irony... he found none.

"Careful with those words around your father," he warned therefore, "he doesn't take them lightly."

"Drake was looking for you, too," Damian suddenly changed the topic.

"The replacement?"

"He was talking about your blood. He told me there was nothing wrong with it."

That was why the kid came out here. Jason nodded absentmindedly, pulling a cigarette out of the package in his hand and looking for a lighter. When he had found it and turned his head again, Damian was sitting beside him. With a lot of space between them, of course, but still an irritating change in their usual pattern of behaviour... which consisted of insulting each other and punching, not necessarily in that order.

So Jason didn't really know what to do or say, until Damian spoke up again.

"I can't believe that Drake, of all people, found the benzene."

The boy's face was averted, and Jason understood where he was coming from all too well. While they were busy moping around, the replacement had been doing his science shit. Tim had found out about the benzene, about the posioned pipework, while Damian and Jason hadn't had so much as clue. They would have never found out about Freeze, and it had made Damian feel futile, in a situation where all he wanted to do was help his big brother. Jason could relate.

"Well, I never was very ambitious with all that science stuff and you don't even reach the microscope..."

Damian shot him a junior-version of the batglare. "He is a stupid idiot who can't even walk straight!"

The corners of Jason's mouth twitched; so Dick hadn't been all wrong when he kept insisting that he and the Devil Spawn would get along perfectly. It was nice to hear those words out of someone else's mouth once in a while. But at the same time he remembered how Dick had been babbling on and on about what a genius Tim was, and truth be told, that benzene thing _was_ pretty impressive.

"Dick always said he's smart..."

"Grayson is an idiot, too," Damian answered without missing a beat. His voice was so flat, face so straight as he looked at him that Jason couldn't help but laugh out loud.

"Ha! That's true."

A small smile appeared on Damian's face but disappeared in a heartbeat. "No wonder they get along that perfectly."

"I _know_, right? Back in Blüdhaven they phoned each other _all the time_. Newlyweds don't even talk that much!"

"You should have seen them during patrol_._" Damian rolled his eyes theatrically, brought up a hand against his forehead and started to flute,_ "'Oh, Timmy my love, be careful!' - 'Oh no, did he hit you? Did you get a splinter? Let me kiss it better!'_"

Jason had to laugh so hard that his cigarette slipped out of his grasp. "Exactly! It's all family and rainbows with them!"

"I can't believe Father fell for that imbecility."

"_Bruce?_" Jason snorted at the ridiculousness of that notion. "_So _not feeling the love, kiddo. Maybe the glittery unicorns of friendship came after I died, but I don't recall seeing them in the cave today."

Damian's smile - a genuine one that made him look like the kid he was - fell immediately, and Jason realized that the kid had been serious. "Don't mock my father, Todd."

"Oh, come on, you started it." The air between them had changed drastically, and Jason was pissed. Fooling around with the Babybird had been fun, and laughing felt good after such a long time. Now they were heading right back into all that stuff Jason didn't want to think about.

"I was completely serious."

"You really want me to believe that _Bruce_ is applying for father of the year? The same one that can't even say 'good morning' unless you give him a logical reason to?"

"My father is a man of actions, not of words, Todd." Damian straightened his back, pride evident in his posture.

"Ohhh, actions!" He should just leave – this was going into territory he really shouldn't go into, especially not with a ten-year-old. But as always, Jason's mouth was faster than his reason. "So when he tries to get me to prison, he's actually saying how proud he is?"

Damian looked at him with disdain. "No, you simpleton. He wants you to return to the family."

Jason barked out a bitter laugh even though it wasn't funny, not even a little bit. "You've been taking some of Dickiebird's medicine?"

Damian flinched. "He's trusting the legal system with its repentance. He believes you might come to your senses if you served your time."

"That's _bullshit_," Jason spat out. He was furiously rummaging in his pockets for another cigarette, because _goddamnit_, he needed one now... this conversation was getting drastically out of hand, and Jason didn't know if he could stand to hear another version of Bruce's behaviour that went against his past beliefs. He didn't want to listen to this. "I'd never return to this sanctimonious crusade..."

"I know," Damian said matter-of-factly, as if Jason's anger and hatred was nothing but a daily nuisance... which it, for him, probably was. "I keep telling Father and Grayson."

"You keep telling them what?"

"That you obviously don't want to return."

Jason watched the boy beside him silently. He hadn't given much thought to what Bruce's son was or wasn't capable of, but apparently he had inherited his father's sharp mind and his observation skills. The kid was smart. Blinded by his pride and upbringing, but smart. Dick had been talking about Damian endlessly, and now he wished he had listened a little closer.

He had found another cigarette by now, and slowly and carefully lighted it. While they watched the smoke rise into the night, Jason began talking.

"Dick always wanted me to make up with Bruce. With everyone. He's the only one that kept trying, and now he's going to die."

"-tt-. I knew all that, Todd."

A vein on Jason's forehead twitched. Devil brat. "I think I never really... valued his persistence. For what it's worth, he tried."

Jason could feel Damian's eyes on him for a long time. "So you fell for it, too."

Not daring to look back or knowing what to answer, Jason averted his gaze from the smoke to his hands. They were still stained with Freeze's blood, and Jason felt the urge to wash them at once. What a freaking metaphore.

"If you want to return, just do it." Damian rose to his feet beside him, obviously ending their conversation. "He'll welcome you with open arms if you stop killing."

"It's not that easy," Jason whispered as the boy turned to go, holding him back.

"Yes, it is."

Rage bubbled up in Jason's chest, and it was so easy to fall back into that familiar pattern. The pain of the last years was evident before his eyes once again, and just the idea of that little prick in front of him calling his decisions, his actions, 'easy' was enough to send him over the top.

Damian sensed the change in mood and continued. "Todd, I come from a very proud family. The al Ghuls have existed for centuries, purebred and mighty. I've been raised to a simple truth: Either you bear the name, or you don't. If you bear it, you're part of the family with all its responsibilities and privileges. If you don't, there's nothing you can do about it."

He was silent, and just when Jason was about to snap at him Damian went on. "But when I came to Gotham, to meet my father, it was... different. They don't care about names, or blood. You just have to meet one condition and they call you family. It _is_ easy."

"But I broke that condition," Jason answered soberly. Damian's story was true, he reflected, they opened their arms and called you family as soon as you promised to keep to the Bat law. And 'they', Jason knew, were Bruce and Dick. For the first time he wondered who had actually started it; hadn't _Bruce_ taught Dick those values?

"It doesn't matter, just stop," Damian said bluntly, pulling Jason out of his thought.

"Of course it matters. I killed hundreds of people, and he won't even forgive one of them."

"He does. _They _do. It's not about what you did, but about what you plan to do."

Jason stared at his little brother incredulously. "What are you even talking about?"

"I killed. Many people," Damian said soberly, reminding Jason of the assassin training the boy had completed.

"You were raised to it. You didn't know any better."

"Dick killed."

"No, he only blamed himself for Blockbuster's death."

Impatiently, Damian stretched the next words. "The Joker. He killed _the Joker._"

Jason's head snapped around so hard he could hear the joints cracking. But Damian stood there, all calm and relaxed, and _shit_, the little fucker wasn't known for jokes. His mouth had run dry in mere seconds, but Damian seemed to get that a bit of explanation was necessary.

"Strangled him. Joker hurt Drake and Grayson snapped. Father performed cardiopulmonary resusciation afterwards, because Grayson wouldn't stop wallowing in self-pity."

And really, with everything he had learned tonight, from frozen wives to benzene-induced cancer, this information didn't seem as implausible as it should. In fact, it fit just perfectly into all that mess he tried to make sense of.

So Jason leaned his head into his hands and started to laugh. Dickiebird had killed the Joker? Sure, why not. He was the Golden Child, after all. ...Or no, not so much anymore, as he had learned today. _Oh, shit_. Jason just gave up trying to deal with everything and laughed.

Under Damian's confused gaze, he let himself fall backwards against the dirty floor of the hospital roof. He should be pissed at the bats for not telling him about such an important event, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Dick had probably been agonizing about his failed big brother example, and why should Tim or Damian or even Bruce talk to him?

Damian mumbled something after a few minutes of silence and turned to go. Jason listened until his footsteps vanished but didn't leave himself. There was so much he needed to figure out, and the only person he could talk to about it was drugged to the eyeballs.

There was one truth, Jason mused, that always proved to be right. _Life sucked._

After a while, he got up from the cold floor and disabled the shitty security measures on one of the hospital windows. Time to find a bed.

-tbc-

_sooo that's part 2. Please keep in mind that this and the last chapter were supposed to be one chapter, so all the blabla should have balanced with the action of part one. _

_Damian's pretty OOC, I fear. But let's keep in mind that he probably needs someone to talk to. Dick is unconscious, Bruce isn't there, and I don't think Damian would ever go to Tim, especially not after Tim just landed the coup the théâtre. And he and Jason actually have more in common than they both like to admit, I believe..._

_Thanks for all the lovely feedback! Next chapter will be the beginning of the end, and I am very curious about how you'll react to it :)._

_(PS: I finally fixed the chapter grid. Don't get confused :D )  
_


	23. Chapter 21

LIFELINES

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The next day they all came together in Dick's hospital room.

Damian had spent the night there, and Tim had always been an early bird. So when Jason strolled in, he wasn't exactly thrilled to them both at Dick's bedside.

His night had been crappy; unable to turn off his thoughts while staring at the ceiling of the empty hospital room he had made camp in for the night, sleep had eluded him until gray light fell into the room. Being thrown out of bed by a nurse and a doctor who were sticking their tongues into each other's throats and were already half-naked hadn't helped his mood at all.

But thankfully, neither of his little brothers seemed to be in the mood for talking either. Damian only shot him a short glance, full of contempt as usual, without any flicker of sympathy their half-assed bonding on the roof last night might have evoked. It was quite agreeable for Jason, who was busy enough trying to make sense out of the turn his life had just made. The last thing he needed now, _seriously_, was a kid clinging on his coattails, perfectly capable of slitting his throat when Jason so much as blinked.

The replacement followed his usual pattern of behaviour concerning him – nodding a short, neutral greeting he went on with typing away on his laptop and ignoring Jason completely.

Dick wasn't awake, Jason saw soon, but he now had an oxygen mask strapped over his mouth and nose. Though Dick's chest was rising and falling in calming, regular intervals on its own, the scene looked considerably more dramatic than before. Jason didn't like it at all.

"The fever broke last night and they're giving him another sort of pain medication," Tim spoke up, eyes never leaving the screen, "Less aggressive on the metabolism, but it's flattening the breathing. The mask ensures that his oxygen level stays up."

"Isn't that more dangerous?" Jason asked suspiciously.

To his surprise, Damian's voice piped up. "We already noticed, Todd." His expression was grim and the disdainful glare he shot at the mask was worrisome, but before Jason could investigate further loud voices in the hallway distracted him.

They were coming down the hallway, two pairs of fast-paced footsteps approaching, and even though Jason couldn't yet make out any words, Bruce boisterous voice was easily recognizable. Another, more defensive male voice tried to bring a point across, but arguing with Bruce had always been an impossible task, and only a few metres distance from Dick's room a door was suddenly slammed shut and the argument stopped abruptly.

Picturing a crying doctor beside another comatose patient in the adjacent room, Jason was able to get his trademark smirk up in time for Bruce to enter. He didn't know how to react to the man; he had hoped that he wouldn't show up at all. Jason hadn't made up his mind yet about how to approach the new changes in his life – even though Bruce hadn't killed Freeze, he still replaced him a few months after his 'death' and hadn't exactly acted anything like a father towards him since. But when Jason saw the tired eyes of his former mentor, mirroring those of the assembled birds, he was again reminded that there were more urgent things to worry about now. Dick was dying, and his other problems would just have to wait.

"Any news?" Tim asked with a quiet voice.

Bruce only acknowledged Jason with a glance, then turned towards the teen. "The old medication was affecting his kidneys too heavily. They still refuse further dialysis."

They kept talking in calm, resigned voices, medical talk Jason didn't understand and had no ambition to learn about. For the sake of doing something other than just standing around in the middle of the room, he stepped closer to the bed. Dick was sleeping soundly, almost peacefully if it weren't for the silent jags on the EKG-screen that were too slow, too weak.

Jason wasn't like Bruce. Dick was just a human being, and even though it had been out of jealousy, Jason had always detected the weaknesses and shortcomings of his brother. Unlike Bruce, who saw the perfect soldier that kept returning to him again and again, and who simply refused to accept the notion of losing him. If Dick was indeed dying, Jason knew he had to accept it. But he still needed to clear the decks with the oldest bird. He didn't know how he and the rest of the family would deal with each other after this was over, and Jason desperately needed answers.

Answers like how it felt to kill the Joker. Why Dick didn't tell him. And how he could lie to everyone like that.

Jason's gaze dropped to one of the thin arms that were draped over the blanket. There was a large, purple bruise stretching out under where a needle had pierced the skin, and it was hard to imagine that those arms had pinned down the Joker to strangle him.

A voice managed to break through to him: " -has to be another way." Bruce appeared beside him, and Jason automatically moved a few steps away.

"We need more time," Bruce muttered under his breath, eyes taking in his eldest son's condition.

"Time won't help," Tim spoke up, closing his laptop with a sigh, "If we manage to get him treated again, we'd still need a donor, and there isn't one."

"We can't just stop looking. I've contacted every database there is."

"Yes, and it hasn't brought up anything so far," Jason was surprised to hear the replacement talk back to Bruce like that. "He doesn't _want_ any more treatment, that's why he signed those damn paper."

Bruce whirled around and glared at the family genius. "He didn't know it was Freeze. Dick would never give up if he knew."

"It's _you_ who can't give up." Tim's voice sounded strange, a mixture of sadness and anger.

"Freeze changed things. I can't let it end like that."

"So what will you do?" Jason interrupted, speaking for the first time since Bruce entered the room. The three Bats looked at him in surprise, as if they forgot he was here as well.

It was a good question, Jason knew as soon as Bruce failed to answer. Looking back at the sleeping figure on the bed, Bruce appeared conflicted, as if he was still debating. There was a bad feeling rising in Jason's stomach, like an ominous premonition.

"Father." Damian had taken a few steps towards his father, looking serious and firm, already so much like Batman. "I have already contacted my grandfather."

The temperature in the room changed immediately, dropping by several degrees. Or maybe it was just Jason's perception going berserk when the implications of the words hit him and his premonition proved to be right.

"Why did you do that, Damian?"

"My grandfather will be able to save Grayson."

"There aren't any Lazarus Pits left," Tim chipped in, disrupting the glaring contest between father and son. "We destroyed them."

"-tt-. My grandfather surely has taken provisions, Drake. There is at least one that is still functional, and presumably Grandfather knows how to duplicate them."

Jason's heart had started to beat faster at the mention of the pits. He stared a hole into Bruce's head – the man needed to stop this at once. This wasn't something Jason was prepared to discuss, to think about, with them anywhere near; in fact, just knowing that there was still one pit around made a shiver run down his spine.

"You shouldn't have contacted your grandfather without my consent," Bruce said finally. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing yet, of course. There's no way to contact Ra's al Ghul directly; I sent message to my mother, informing her about of my desire to talk to him about the pit."

"Damian!" Bruce hissed, "Ra's al Ghul is an enemy. If he knows that one of us is incapacitated, he may attack. Do you have any idea what kind of danger you may have brought us?!"

Damian wasn't impressed at all. "-tt-, Father. I can assure you that my grandfather already knew about Grayson's condition, probably before we did."

"Do you think he'll let us use the pit?" Tim asked hopefully, and Jason swallowed drily.

"Not without receiving something in return," Bruce answered. "And I don't like to stand in Ra's al Ghul's debt."

"_What?_" Tim rose to his feet, a scandalized look on his face. "Isn't Dick more important than your pride?!"

"He could ask for anything, the risk is too high."

"We're talking about _Dick_!"

"I need to agree with Drake this time. We can deal with anything my grandfather might request _after_ Grayson has recovered."

"What if he demands your return?" Bruce sharply asked and motioned to Richard. "Dick would never forgive me."

"But he'd be _alive_ to do so!"

"Woah, replacement. Didn't you argue against any further measures just a second ago?" Jason interrupted, siding, to his own surprise, with Bruce. Tim flinched back as if bitten by a snake, and Damian sneered furiously.

The situation was a strange one – the Devil Spawn and the Replacement against him and Bruce. Jason didn't think that would ever be possible. But Bruce was glancing back at Dick with a calculating expression, and fear rose in Jason that he'd actually consider throwing him into one of the pits.

Jason shuddered involuntarily at the thought of the madness of this strange mixture of water and magic. He remembered waking up under water, swallowed up by those colors and _sounds_ and losing his mind because it was the only way to deal with it. Sometimes Jason wasn't sure if his sanity had ever fully returned; he still heard the rushes of the water, like voices whispering about things that had happened thousand of years ago...

"You can't throw him in," he spoke up suddenly, shuddering at the rawness of his own voice. "It changes you. Dick would never recover from it."

"What imbecility are you talking about, Todd?!" Damian hissed, annoyed. His face twitched for a second, whit what Jason believed to be a flicker of fear. Surely the boy knew more about the pits than his father did, having grow up next to them. Jason, on the other hand, was the only one that ever had been through that exnperience. His next words were important, and Damian knew that they could rob him of the only possibility of saving his brother.

"It's wrong," Jason tried to explain while the three others stared at him. "The whole procedure feels wrong, the pit... it lets you know. You shouldn't be alive. You shouldn't be here." Jason shuddered, feeling vulnerable and naked talking about it. In the back of his mind, he felt the pit's water closing in around his thoughts, whispering to him. "It separates you from anything else."

There was a long silence following Jason's confession, during which he stubbornly stared out of the window and felt Bruce's gaze burning into him. Tim sighed sadly, obviously accepting the truth of what his brother had just said. Because if there was a difference between Jason and Dick, it was their capability of being alone. Jason could deal with not belonging, having been raised by the streets to distrust people and rely only on himself. Dick, in sharp contrast, needed people, closeness, trust. Letting the Lazarus Pit reanimate him would either result in another person, very possibly a mad one, or ultimately kill him.

"You will not speak another word to your grandfather or your mother," Bruce ordered and ended the silence.

Damian flinched, stared at his father with wide eyes, and finally pivoted on his heels and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

"I'll talk to him," the replacement said with a sullen voice and went after the babybird, probably jumping at the chance to leave the room.

Jason and Bruce awkwardly stood on opposite ends of the bed, busily avoiding each other glances. Out of the corner of his eye, Jason could see Bruce staring at his hands, at non-existence dust on his sleeves, and just knew that he was going to do something sappy any minute.

"Jason..." he said with a grave voice. _Here it comes._ "I... the pit..."

"Why didn't you tell me that Dick strangled the Joker?" He blurted out the first thing that came to his mind, jumping into one awkward topic to avoid talking about another one. Bruce looked at him in shock, and it in turn shocked Jason that Bruce would let him see him like that.

"He didn't want you to know."

"_Why?"_

Then, something changed. Bruce's expression grew stern again, as if an invisible cowl had been drawn over his features, and looked back at Dick, nodding grim. "He'll have to explain that to you himself."

With that, he reached out to squeeze one of Dick's hands and left the room, leaving a confused Jason.

"Shit," he cursed silently, turning his head to the sleeping form of his brother. "Whatever is going on here, it's your fault."

############### ############### ###########

The doctor stared at him, perplexed.

"Two-hundred thousand," Bruce offered, doubling his proposal. The man in front of him was gaping like a gold fish, still not really understanding what was happening to him. Luckily, Bruce had dealt with much more astute business people, and had a Batman poker face on his side. He couldn't let the doctor see how important that matter was, he needed to be the boss in this, no matter what.

Prying his eyes away from the checkbook Bruce held in his hands, the other man turned his attention again towards the file Bruce had given him earlier.

"I don't understand. He's palliative. What are you expecting from further dialysis?"

"I'm expecting him to survive. He'll get chemo at the same time."

The young nephrologist's eyes widened. "He's not strong enough to survive this."

"We'll keep him alive until there is a matching donor." Outwardly, Bruce managed to stay calm, while his heart was beating widely. This _had_ to work...

"The living will explicitly states that he refuses life-prolonging measures!" Appalled, the doctor tried to thrust the papers back at Bruce.

"Three-hundred thousand dollars," said man answered calmly.

"Do you even know what you're asking me for? I could lose my licensure!"

"Four-hundred thousand dollars and a life-long hedging to a Swiss bank account in case of legal consequences."

The dollar signs basically danced in the doctor's eyes. Bruce didn't dare to hope, but the next question made the man's consent clear, even if he himself didn't know yet.

"How should this work? Do you know how much equipment he'd need? You'll never manage to keep this a secret. We'd need nurses, and oncologists, and –"

"That'll be my concern. You'll get any piece of equipment you ask for. A dialysis- machine is being delivered into a private room on the floor that's closed for modernization right now."

############ ############### ##############

"It's not the right thing to do, Mr. Wayne," the nurse decided and handed the check for five-hundred thousand dollars back to Bruce. "I'm sorry for your loss." She patted his arm and tried to walk past him.

"I heard Liza is having difficulties at school," Bruce called out, and Mrs. Monaghan froze in mid-step.

"What did you just say?"

"It would be a shame if she didn't manage to get into a good college just because of her school's bad reputation."

"Are you threatening me?" Mrs. Monaghan came closer again, acting tough but shaking. Bruce didn't know if it was due to anger or fear, and he didn't care either. His plan was working, that was all he needed to know.

"Not at all, Mrs. Monaghan," he said politely, an utterly false, apologetic smile on his lips. "Don't you think that Liza would perform well at Gotham Academy? All she'd need is a sponsor."

"You'd do that just so I'll keep your son alive for a few more weeks?"

Bruce's smile turned genuine now. He had her. "Ivy-league college guaranteed if he survives until a donor is found."

Mrs. Monaghan stared at him, then crossed her arms and raised one challenging eyebrow. "Including her M.A.?"

"If you get him through the donation."

########## ################ ##############

Jason had left the hospital room a couple of minutes ago. The silence in the room had been depressing; Dick wouldn't wake up, and Jason hadn't known what to do. Sitting on a bench in the hospital yard, he blew smoke into the air and tried to ignore how much the rising fume reminded him of the whirls and currents of the Lazarus Pit. A movement in the corner of his eye distracted his attention; someone was stepping out of the door that led back to the oncology unit. The replacement.

Tim caught his gaze and stopped short. Obviously undecided, he debated for a few seconds before he continued his way over.

"You mind if I sit down?"

Jason grunted, and the third Robin sat down heavily, sighing. Jason was just about to reach for another cigarette, when the teen snatched the pack out of his hands.

"Do they help?" he asked, and Jason watched with amusement how he grabbed one of the fags and turned it over in his hands.

"Only one way to find out, right?" Jason held up the lighter, and Tim's cigarette started to smoke. The teen eyed the item in his hand warily, but then brought it up to his lips and inhaled deeply. Breaking down in a coughing fit almost immediately, he pushed the cigarette back into Jason hands. "This... is disgusting," he managed to press out between coughs.

Jason laughed. "Now don't you ever claim I didn't do any big brother shit with you."

"Why don't you try some big brother shit with Damian? He's sulking on the hospital roof and won't talk to me." Tim sighed deeply and run his fingers through his hair, making Jason realize how tired he looked. "This is all so fucked-up."

It was a good summary of the situation, nothing to add. The two of them sat in silence, therefore, taking drags of the cigarette in turns. The lack of conversation or argument was almost comforting, until the replacement's mobile phone rang.

"Hello, Barbara? … yes?... okay... okay, I'll tell him. Thanks."

Jason watched him carefully. After picking up with a hopeful expression, Tim's face fell quickly, and now he was hanging up with a look that reminded him of a kicked puppy.

"Babs just checked the Canadian bone marrow donation register again," he informed Jason when he noticed him staring, "But there's nothing there either. We're running out of option fast."

Jason nodded, while Tim buried his face into his hands. "I feel so useless..."

"Useless? You're the only who actually _did_ something."

"Yeah, and look how far it brought us."

"It's not like you can miraculously produce bone marrow," Jason said, wondering why the hell he was trying to comfort the replacement. The teen's voice had sounded so bitter, and Jason didn't like it all. Dick had always told him how easily Tim could get all worked up in a problem, and how worried he'd always been that Tim was becoming too much like Bruce.

"Wayne Industry's R&D is trying to," Tim said, and then whispered, "Bruce will keep him on life support until something comes up. He'll pull him through hell."

Jason had to suppress a shudder. "He can't do that, Dick signed a will."

"He'll find a way."

Jason had seen Dick on life support a couple of times. Hell, they all had been there at one time or another; it came with the job description. But this time was different, this time Dick had explicitly stated he didn't want to. If Bruce were to ignore that, were to pull Dick through further chemo with the help of breathing tubes and artificial feeding, it would be like Mr Freeze and Nora.

"Maybe there'll be a donor," Jason tried. "How many are registering each day?"

It was meant as a rhetorical question, but Tim looked up sharply. "Jason, the chances of finding a suitable donor are minimal. Not even 10% of the world's population is register... _ooh._"

Jason turned his head to look at Tim, who had zoned out and stared into nothing. "Drake?"

"90% are not registered," the teen said, grinning madly at Jason.

"Yeah, I figured. What are you -"

"Sorry, Jay," Tim interrupted him hurriedly, already grabbing his mobile phone and punching in numbers, "I have to check something out."

He was gone in mere seconds, and to Jason's chagrin, had taken his last cigarette with him.

############### ############# #########

The oncologist wasn't hard to convince, but he was a dead serious businessman.

"What about the living will?" he asked, carefully examining the check in his hands.

"There is a loophole, but I'd rather take that step as last resort."

"So we don't have to fear legal consequences? I assume you already bought some lawyers and judges."

No, not exactly. There was an easier way, but Bruce nodded nonetheless. The oncologist didn't need to know his plan, he just needed to do his part. "Those lawyers would also defend you in case your... _other occupation_ would ever be revealed."

The man froze, eyes widening. Bruce shot him a shark-like smile, just to make sure the hierarchy was clear.

"So..." the doctor swallowed, "when will we begin?"

"Now," Bruce answered, "there is no time to lose."

################### ############### ###########

The mobile phone only rang once before Jason picked up, dropping the thug he had just beaten the shit out at once.

"Yeah?"

"_Jason?"_

"Replacement?" Jason stomach dropped. What could have happened that made Tim call him in the middle of the night? He had a very obvious idea about that, but he desperately hoped he was wrong.

"_Are you up for a trip to Europe?"_

"Am I – _what?_"

Jason could hear the smile on Tim's lips. _"I'm thinking about Great Britain and Romania. There are two people we just _have_ to meet."_

-tbc-

_And that answers the question why Bruce wanted Barbara to gather information of the hospital staff. I added a longer conversation about the Lazarus Pits, because even if I don't like them, they exist and we can't just ignore them. Following now are some questions my lovely readers have stated in reviews or PMs; some of them should have been answered a long time ago, and I really apologize for the waiting!_

**Dick killed the Joker? WTF?** _Yes, he really did that, I didn't make it up! It's in the comic "Joker's Last Laugh". Nightwing thought that the Joker killed Robin (Tim) and snapped, saying that he couldn't take any more deaths by the Joker's hands.. He beat the shit out of Joker and strangled him, but the Batfamily arrived early and revived him. Dick regretted it almost immediately. (And by the way, as far as I know Dick was on Tamaran when Jason died, so he couldn't have done anything impulsive and thoughtless back then.) _

**Are Jason and Damian best buddies now?** _Ha. I wish._

**Bruce is an idiot! Why didn't he call in experts earlier?** _(this goes back to the time of Dick's relapse) Well, keep in mind that Dick never told his family about the severeness of the situation. They all thought he was still in remission before he passed out in the bathroom. Also, the last time Bruce tried to do more for his son, Dick kicked him out (chapter 3). And leukemia (or cancer in general) is not an illness that gives you much choice over treatment. Chemo and transplantation usually is the best chance you got, and since it brought Dick into remission, it kind of worked. _

**I'm confused about all that talk about stem cell transplantation and bone marrow transplantation.. **_It's the same thing, really. Stem cell transplantation (or hematopoietic stem cell __ transplantation, to be correct) is just more precise. Stem cells from the donors bone marrow are taken and given to the patient. In the patient's body, they develop into bone marrow themselves._

**Couldn't they use William Cobb's marrow?** _Good idea, but I'm ignoring the Talons in this story. Also, a relative doesn't necessarily imply a suitable donation. _

**Why don't they ask the Martians for help (J'onn and M'gan of the JLA)? They can shapeshift! **_Oh boy, that one really made me pull my hair. Great idea, I never thought of it. I don't know much about the shape shifting abilities of the Martians, but I guess that their morphing doesn't go as deep as the molecule level. What Dick needs is a matching donor, this means he needs cells that are made of the almost exact tissue features as his own. This goes down to chromosome level (more about that next time), and I don't think the Martians change their genes. 'Cuz then they wouldn't be able to change back, right? o.O_

((**edit 24th december**: yeah okay, I get it. Several reviewers have stated that Megan changed her blood type to be able to donate blood in YJ. I'll come back to that!))_  
_

**I liked the flashback in chapter 20A! Will there be more?**_ Nothing set in stone, but probably, yeah. I like flashbacks, too. :)_

**There's not enough Tim in this story! **_Hey, don't say that. Tim might have been absent in the beginning, but his involvement gets more and more important with every chapter. You'll see, his role in this is HUGE._

**There's too much Jason in this story. I miss Dickiebird!**_ Me too :(. Dick was so easy to write and always fun. I really didn't intend to have Jason as such an integral part, but I fear that was just poor planning on my part. Dick can't be the narrator anymore, that's just fact. Having him __ awake all the time would be too unrealistic. Jason on the other hand is the perfect narrator since he is the central character in the bringing-the-family-together process. But I'm aware of the disproportion, and countermeasures are scheduled._


	24. Chapter 22

_Medical termini will be explained at the end of chapter (though only 'HLA, etc-.' and 'radiation' are really important)_

LIFELINES

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Bruce looked at the six people in front of him, nodding to those who looked up and caught him staring. They were reading through Dick's hospital file, each of them furrowing their brows.

Andrea Nichols, a nurse who got 15000 dollars for each day that Dick survived. The oncologist who performed illegal abortions up to the eighth month of pregnancy, 20000 dollars. The nephrologist who just wanted enough money to buy a small island in the Caribbean. Mr. Hutchington, a nurse who needed money to pay back his father's debts. The anesthetist Mrs. Neeson, who had faked her doctorate thesis and now had four of the best medics in America writing a new one for her. And Mrs. Monaghan, who wanted to pay for the best college for her daughter.

They all had their reasons to be here with him at this hour, in this quiet, isolated hospital room in the wing closed for modernization. Bruce had made sure each one of them would gain something from keeping Dick alive. Dick was so far away in lala-land right now that he likely wouldn't not wake up during their little talk, but Bruce had asked Alfred to stay with him just in case.

"Okay, let's talk business."

Bruce handed out a work schedule, the nurses' considerably larger than the doctors'. Bruce had had to fabricate cases to make the nurses' absences plausible, constructing a false patient database to fill the usual eight-hour shifts. The doctors were easier. They were only needed for appointmentssuch as chemo or painkiller administration, and they wore a pager at all times; if called by a member of Dick's private team they were to drop everything and come. It had been quite an act to find a way to keep the anesthetist out of hour-long surgeries, but he had found one.

"I will be informed of any change in his condition, his treatment and medication," Bruce began, "No decision without my agreement. If I can't be reached for whatever reason, Leslie Thompkins will decide on my account."

But there would be no reason for him to be unreachable. Batman's cowl was hidden in the cave and Bruce had no intention of taking it up again until each and every cancerous cell from Dick's body was gone.

"I want a list of supplies you need each day to order them in time. What is your plan of action?"

He nodded in the direction of the little group, motioning for the doctors to start talking. Uneasily, the oncologist stepped forward.

"Well, is the goal remission or just survival?"

_Just _survival... Bruce gritted his teeth. This was his son they were talking about. "The 'goal' is to find a matching donor and do a transplantation. Surviving would be preferred, yes."

"But, Mr. Wayne," the oncologist spoke up, shocked, "even if there was a matching donor, Richard will have to undergo radiation before any transplantation might be performed. It's crucial for us to know in time what will happen."

"Remission, then."

"Mr. Wayne, do you even know what you are talking about?" Mrs. Monaghan stepped up beside Dr. Brown. "This procedure we're talking about is strenuous for Richard. We can't just bring him in remission without specific data. He's not strong enough to survive longer periods of pancytopenia."

"Then _keep_ him alive." No room for discussion.

"Very well," the nephrologist spoke up, "then call Dr. Thompkins and prepare a surgery."

Bruce blanched instinctively. Surgery? He hadn't expected that. "Why?"

"I need a Hickman-catheter," he said, and the oncologist nodded in approval, "and I guess we should get the full program – suprapubic bladder catheter, PICC line for artificial alimentation, Hickman line. Can we use the surgery now? It's empty, I guess."

"I'll call Leslie." Bruce nodded. "Mr. Hutchington, I think it's your shift. The nurses at the ICU are waiting for the ambulance service to bring Richard 'home'."

The man got the hint and left, telling the anesthetist to meet him and Dick in front of the surgery ward.

############### ############# ########

Tim bursts through the door without so much as knocking, and Jason, nerves strained already, had his gun pointed at him immediately. He needed a few seconds to register that it was just the Replacement, but Tim had already walked past him when he lowered his gun. The teen was practically vibrating with adrenaline and had probably not even noticed how close he had come to gaining a hole in his head _again._

He started to talk the second he placed the laptop on the shitty table of the Red Hood's hideout, too fast for Jason to follow.

"Hey," he called, trying to get Tim's attention. _"Hey!_ What the hell is going on?"

Tim stopped in the middle of the sentence and stared at Jason incredulous. "Oh my God aren't you listening? I keep telling you, they have undergone serotyping and their HLA class ma-"

"I don't understand a word you're saying, shitface. What's going on?"

"What's going on? The whole thing was your idea."

"The fuck!?" Jason's patience was wearing thin. Fast.

"Yeah, okay," Tim's hands kept moving at super-human speed, totally freaking Jason out, "technically it was my idea but if you hadn't brought up the number of registrations per day I would have never -"

"_TIM!_" Jason snatched the replacement's arms out of the air and pushed him down on the only chair in the hideout. "I am _so_ close to hitting you with my gun. Do you get that?"

Tim nodded, silent for once. His gaze kept swinging back and forth between Jason's face and the grip on his wrists, which had become pretty strong. Then Jason let go of him and sat on the edge of the table, next to the computer. He grinned smugly – macho demeanour always worked.

"Okay, now you will explain to me what the fuck is going on."

"It's so simple, Jason. It's a shame no one thought about it earlier." Tim started hacking away on his laptop. "We kept checking the bone marrow donation registries, even though they only cover about 10% of the world's population. 90% are potential donors, they just haven't registered."

He turned the screen of the laptop into Jason's direction. A picture of a middle-aged woman stared up at him. "This is Amelia Brooke, born Marga. She was born in Romania but her family moved to Norwich, Great Britain. Her HLA type matches with Dick's." With a click, Amelia disappeared and a young man with raven hair appeared. "And this is Traian Antonescu, currently residing in Bucharest, Romania. His genes match even better, but his constant hospital visits indicate that he might be sick himself."

Jason stared at Tim's wicked grin. "And you want us to 'visit' them to get their bone marrow?"

"The stem cells in their marrow, yes. This could save him, Jason."

Tim's eyes were gleaming, and Jason too could feel excitement bubbling up in his chest. But he had learned early not to get his hopes up too soon. This was too easy.

"How did you find them?"

"Oh, I told Babs to go through some hospital files. There are various reasons to check for tissue components, and since the procedure is expensive and the results never change, the hospital stores the information. But they never signed up for any bone marrow registry, so we never found them."

Jason eyed him suspiciously. "You're telling me that Oracle went over what, myriads of hospital files, in a few hours and actually found two matches?"

"No, she only went through Romanian hospitals. We needed a closer range, so I chose East Europe. Dick's Romani, and most Romani live there, especially in Romania. Babs is going through Hungary and Bulgaria right now." And then, when Jason didn't answer, "Don't you get what this means?"

Jason only shot him a wary glance. "So what now? You want to knock on those people's door and ask them nicely if you can stick a 15cm long needle into their hips because you illegally found out their chromosomes match someone they don't even know?"

Tim crossed his arms stubbornly. "If that's what it takes, yes."

Jason was just about to say something in return, something that would have included many insults, but Tim's mobile phone rang in that moment. Without hesitating, the replacement picked it up and mouthed

'Damian' into Jason's direction.

"Yeah?... He's – _what?!_" Jason's head snapped up just to see the teen paling visibly. "I'm on my way."

He hung up, flipped his laptop shut and rushed past Jason. "Damian says Dick's going into surgery."

Jason felt his stomach constrict. "What? Why?"

"I don't know. Apparently Bruce wants him to."

They ran out the door faster than any speedster could.

############ ################## #############

Tim was an incredibly stubborn jerk. Not two seconds after they had jumped into Jason's Lexus, fastened their seat belts and sped away towards the hospital, he opened up his laptop again.

"Amelia is a registered blood donor, Jason," he said. "She lost her first husband to pulmonary cancer."

Jason only gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on the road. Images were flashing in front of his inner eye, and Tim's quaking was really fucking distracting.

"She will donate, don't you see? This is it!"

Yes, Jason saw the chance. And that was why he couldn't bring up his hopes. Just now Dick was going into surgery for whatever reason they didn't know, and it would be just Jason's luck if they'd lose their big brother right after they found the perfect donor.

"Donating blood is not the same thing as sticking an inch-long needle through your bone," he growled, annoyed when he understood that Tim wouldn't drop the subject without him responding. "You need to give her a good reason to do that." Not to mention that other guy, Antonescu, who was too young to have a dead wife and wasn't enjoying the best health himself.

This actually made Tim shut up, Jason noticed with elation, but then the teen started to think aloud.

"We can't offer her money, that's true; she can't know that we got her data illegally. We need to trick her into donating..."

"This can't be the first time you bats have to trick somebody into doing something."

"No, but usually we just sent Dick to flirt them into doing whatever we wanted."

Jason grinned broadly; he could see_ that_. "And if your targets were guys?"

"Same approach, better efficiency."

Jason snorted a laugh and almost missed the hospital driveway. When they hurried out of the car, all jokes and fun were forgotten, and with equally worried expressions they made their way towards the surgical ward.

They found Bruce waiting in front of it, staring into nothing. It was a strange sight; Bruce never wasted time; he found something useful to do in every spare second. It made the lump in Jason's throat swell, and from the way the replacement looked it affected him too.

"Bruce," Tim called out, breaking into a light jog to cross the last few metres. "What's going on? How serious is it?"

Bruce let his eyes wander from Tim to Jason, who had slowed down at the sight of his former mentor and was approaching hesitantly. Then he turned his attention back to his faithful little soldier and concentrated only on him.

"Everything's fine. Dick needs another set of catheters that need to be installed in an aseptic environment."

"At this hour?" Tim asked suspiciously and checked his watch. "We thought he was going into some emergency operation or something!"

"What does he need those catheters for?" Jason piped up, only growing more defiant when Bruce shot him a glare. "They didn't want to administer any more chemo or dialysis."

"They do now."

Tim and Jason stared at Bruce, shocked. The man was glaring at them, arms crossed, obviously determined to go through with whatever he had planned.

"What did you do?" Tim whispered fearfully.

"I'm saving his life." The tone in Bruce's voice was ice. "And I don't need you to try to talk me out of it too."

'Too' – Alfred probably had tried to knock some sense into Bruce already. Where was Alfred, by the way? "So what, you'll pump him full of chemo until he miraculously gets better?" Jason was pissed.

"I'll keep him alive until a donor appears or R&D finds some other solution."

Tim turned to Jason sharply, horror etched on his face. "That could take ages," he argued weakly.

"Then he'll just have to survive ages." Bruce wasn't even trying to convince them anymore. In true Batman-stubborness he sent a piercing glare into each of their directions and then turned around without another word, disappearing behind the door to the surgery unit.

Jason and Tim were left alone to deal with their shock, and Tim was the first to sigh bitterly and sit down in one of the ugly green plastic chairs. "I knew this would happen. I _knew_ it."

"He can't just ignore Dick's will, can he?" Jason's voice sounded like a 5-year-old's, but for once he didn't care. Tim wasn't doing any better right now.

"Bruce can do whatever he wants. He'll force him into remission and then hook him up to life-support."

The pictures that already disturbed Jason while driving came up again. Dick breaking down during chemo, talking Romanian. Passing out after spending hours in front of the toilet, heaving dry. Dick shooting murderous glances at Jason for forcing him to eat the tiniest portion.

"But we already have a donor, right?" he said slowly, voice low.

Tim's head shot up immediately. "And Dick would already be in remission when we return with it."

"So, Europe. I take it you got some kind of fancy private jet for your last birthday or something?"

Tim's face broke out in a grin. "You're coming?"

"We need a plan. Got your laptop?"

"Right here."

"We'll need to steal one of Batman's toys to get to Europe."

"No stealing," Tim argued. "We'll talk to him. We need to keep each other informed if this should work out." Getting the donation was only half of the game – to survive the transplantation, Dick had to undergo radiation and chemo first, to make sure no cancerous cells or original bone marrow were left in his body. It was a strenuous procedure, and Dick was weak. Past those measures, actually. To make this work, they needed to time everything. "And we'll need money."

"How will we get the marrow? We'll need to talk some doctors into helping us.."

"We'll figure out the details on the way..." Tim suddenly murmured, and Jason could see the cogwheels turning in his head. A plan was forming. "Listen, Jay..."

######## ############ #########

"Damian."

The boy turned around at the sound of Tim's voice, and sneered when he saw its owner. But Tim, having been on the receiving end of most of Damian's moods (all of them, actually), knew when he was being serious and when he was acting. His arrogant demeanor right now – pretentious look, dismissive sneer, repulsing posture – was so fake, Tim could almost see the scared little boy Dick had always talked about.

"He's alright. Bruce scheduled the surgery to prepare him for further treatment; it wasn't an emergency." Visibly, Damian relaxed. "Thanks for calling, though."

Damian didn't reply anything, just shrugged his shoulders and turned his head back to watch Gotham's lights. He was playing off his worry well, Tim thought, thinking back to the panicked voice that had greeted him from the other end of the line not even an hour ago.

Since the boy didn't relent in any way, Tim moved forward and sat down beside him and let his feet dangle over the roof. Damian wasn't shifting away from him – that was something, at least. Tim was trying to figure out how to approach the subject of their trip to Europe when Damian spoke up.

"What 'further treatment' are you talking about, Drake?"

"Bruce paid the hospital staff to keep administering chemo therapy, and I guess they'll have to go on with the dialysis too."

"Why?"

"That's a good question." Tim ran a hand over his tired eyes, and when he opened them again, he saw that Damian was staring at him intensely, obviously waiting for a better answer. "Bruce can't give up on him, I suppose. Listen, there's something I need to tell –"

"-tt-, I wouldn't have taken Father for such a lavish man. To keep someone alive who doesn't want to live anymore..." Damian's voice wavered the tiniest bit at the second part of the last sentence. If the content hadn't shocked Tim into objecting, the wavering would have.

"'Doesn't _want_ to live'? Do you even hear what's coming out of your mouth?"

"Then why would he sign those papers?!" Damian sprang to his feet, shouting more loudly than necessary. Tim jumped in surprise; he hadn't expected such an outburst. The boy in front of him had his hands balled into fists and was taking deep breaths, as if he had been running for a while now... With a pang, Tim realized how badly he had miscalculated Damian. He knew his little brother was hiding his worries away, but with the avoidance that came with it, Damian had missed some vital pieces of information. The pieces he_ had_ gathered didn't add up to the real picture.

"Damian," he began, careful, "I can assure you that Dick doesn't want to die. The living will refuses life-prolonging measures like life support –"

"Or further chemo," Damian interrupted him, silently. "_You_ said he needs chemo to survive."

Tim nodded thoughtfully, understanding Damian's allusion to that one time he and Tim had had an actual conversation. Back when Dick still lived at the manor and received treatment, and Tim had invaded the private sanctuary of Damian's room to fetch that book he needed to bring back to the library. After a lot of screaming, Tim had found that despite his impressive education, Damian was lacking essential knowledge about medicine. He was well-trained for emergencies, setting bones and detecting concussions – stuff that came with their profession. When it came to sickness, though, he was poorly versed, and Tim heavily suspected the immediate presence of a Lazarus pit as culprit. Why worry about cancer if immortality and health is a family prerogative?

"Do you know what chemotherapy is?" He asked therefore, awaiting another outburst.

Damian made his trademark "-tt-" sound and turned away again, crossing his arms and avoiding looking at Tim. "Of course I know, you imbecile."

"It's a mixture of cytotoxic drugs. That means it impedes cell division, thus killing fast-diving cells like cancer cells... but also blood cells, hair cells, cells of the intestinal tract, and so on."

"I said _I know_, Drake."

"The immune system doesn't work properly, allowing infections to spread. The constant nausea renders normal food intake impossible, weakening the body even further, so that-"

"I know, goddamnit. Grayson wasn't exactly considerate about _that_."

"_'Considerate'_?!" Tim grabbed the boy's arm and spun him around, close to losing his temper. "That's it. You're coming with me."

"What? Where?"

"To the oncological unit." Ignoring Damian's protests, Tim hauled him up and made his way to the stairs, writing a text message to Jason at the same time. "You've never been there, right? Never visited Dick during chemo?"

"Of course I have!"

Yes, he had, after Bruce and Alfred dragged him there. But even then the boy had plugged in his earphones and spent the visiting hours reading some book. The side effects Dick had had to suffer through at home hadn't been pleasant, but of course their older brother _had_ tried to be considerate despite Damian's claims. With the ex-assassin avoiding him whenever he could, and Dick careful with his display of symptoms in front of the boy, Damian usually only saw Dick knocked out for hours on some couch.

"Dick's leukemia made it impossible for his immune system to work properly," Tim went on with a quiet voice while dragging the unwilling boy along the hospital hallways, "and the chemotherapy only worsened the symptoms."

"Dear lord, I know, Drake! I'm no fool!"

"Do we really have to go through this again? I thought we established that you don't know everything when we talked after I took back that book you-"

"I did _not_ take the book, for the love of God!"

Not this again... "Of course you did, how else-", then a thought flashed through Tim's brain and he slapped a hand against his forehead. "Dick, right? He put it in your room to make us talk to each other?"

Damian's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to undoubtedly let lose a string of obscenities, but Tim interrupted him. "We're here. Please be quiet now, those people need to rest."

####### ############# ########

"Alfred."

Alfred was in Dick's old hospital room, about to pack his grandson's things. Bruce had given him the location of the new room on the closed-down floor, and Alfred was taking his time to fold the clothes the boy hadn't wore neatly. When Jason's voice greeted him, a rare, precious smile appeared on his face.

"Master Jason, how good to see you again. I admit, I worried you'd disappear after the …_ incident_ with Mr. Freeze."

Jason tensed up involuntarily. "He didn't kill him, Alf..." he said, even though he hadn't planned to talk about that, _shouldn't,_ actually, now that there were so many more important things to talk about.

"That must have come as a shock to you." As always, Alfred didn't judge. No 'of course not', no 'I told you so', just a plain, accurate observation. No dismissive or pitiful glance either, he simply went on folding Dick's shirts, meticulously like everything Alfred did.

Dick's shirts. It reminded Jason of what he was here for, and he swallowed all those problems concerning himself down and concentrated on the matter at hand. "Bruce will hook him up to chemo again."

"I know, lad," Alfred sighed deeply. "I already tried to talk it out of him, but... it's hard to give up on him, too. It's hard to neglect that bit of hope Master Bruce is clinging to."

"There is more than a bit of hope, Alf," Jason said, carefully choosing his words. "Tim and Oracle found two potential donors in Europe."

The old man's back straightened at the news, but Jason couldn't tell if it was due to joy, surprise or something else. All of it, he guessed.

"...but?"

"But.. they aren't registered. We'll need to go to Europe and trick them into donating."

"We?" Alfred turned around to face him, one eyebrow raised in amusement. "Who does 'we' include?"

"Me and Tim, and we want you to join us." There it was, he had said it. The second eyebrow shot up, in earnest surprise now. Jason held a breath, waiting and hoping for Alfred to give his consent.

"One of the donors lives in England, Norwich. We need to find a way to make her comply, and no one ever says no to_ you_, Alfred. We have a plan; we'll explain the details to you on the flight. It won't work without you."

"You want me to leave Master Richard now?"

Jason nodded slowly. He had expected this reaction. Of course Alfred knew the implication of travelling to Europe. It would take a while, a while in which Dick could very likely die, no matter how strongly Bruce denied that possibility. Jason denied it too, by the way.

So he dropped his killer argument and hoped it was enough to make Alfred comply. "This is the best shot Dick has – the only shot. It may take ages to find a donor the regular way, and Bruce will do anything to keep him alive until, disregarding his wishes.."

His mobile phone vibrated and distracted Jason. It could only be Tim at this hour, and he automatically grabbed for the device. He glanced at Alfred quickly, and saw that the old man was in deep thought. Pushing a few buttons, a text appeared on the screen.

_'U'll need 2 talk 2 B, this is taking longer than expected. Sry. Lil' D is coming w/ us.' ..._Holy , Jason groaned, damning the incompetence of the fool he was bound to work with.

"I'll need to talk with Master Bruce first," Alfred spoke up before Jason could begin with his swearing.

"Why? You don't need his consent to come with us!"

"No," Alfred looked amused at Jason's assertion. He grabbed the packed bag and made his way towards the door. "But I don't like to leave Master Bruce alone either. He may not show his emotions, but this is affecting him more strongly than it affects any one of us."

"Oh well," the younger man sighed, feeling hope seeping through. Alfred considered joining them! "Apparently, I'll need to talk to Bruce, too. I had hoped Tim would do that."

Jason took the bag out of Alfred's hands and side by side they walked down the hallway.

"I think that's a wonderful idea. You and Master Bruce have a lot to talk about anyway."

"...Yeah, wonderful."

####### ######## #####

Damian followed Tim without further ado, just shooting hushed insults as they walked past the patient's room. He hadn't even noticed at first, but the whispering had come naturally as soon as they entered the oncological unit. Damian was sure that the patients wouldn't even wake up if they talked with loud voices. Still, he didn't dare to speak up. When Drake dragged him from room to room, Damian stopped struggling. Tim was a stubborn idiot, and the hallways were full with machinery like defibrillators or dialysis devices, which Damian didn't want to knock over.

So he followed Tim, thinking that the sooner this was over, the better. Stepping into a room, he heard Drake shutting the door and flinched when the lights suddenly turned on.

"What are you doing?" he hissed angrily, but Tim just shrugged with his shoulders.

"She won't notice."

'She' was the woman on the bed, connected to various tubes that pressed oxygen into her lungs. Damian rolled his eyes and stepped closer, taking the sight in. He expected Drake to start rattling down her medical records, but nothing happened.

After a few minutes of silent observation, Tim asked "You don't recognize her, do you?"

Damian furrowed his brow, shaking his head; the woman on the bed was completely unknown to him.

"It's Margaret."

And suddenly, Damian could see it, could see _her –_ the young woman Dick had sometimes shared a room with during chemo. Margaret suffered from aggressive breast cancer, had already undergone surgery and was in remission the last time Damian had seen her... about six weeks ago. Bruce had dragged Damian along again, and he remembered her joking along with Grayson about chemo and which one of them could go longer without hurling. Dick had liked her, very much, and had been elated when she went into remission.

The woman on the bed now, though, looked like an old woman. She was only skin and bones, as pale as a ghost, and nothing was left of her earlier brightness. Now that his attention was focused on her, Damian could hear the rattling in her chest each time the tube sucked air into her lungs.

"What happened to her?" he asked in a small voice, staring at the dark circles under her eyes. They were even darker than Dick's. But how was that possible, how could she look so tired when all she did was sleep?

"She didn't sign any papers," was the sober reply, and Damian could feel his insides turn into ice. "She's still getting chemotherapy."

Tim appeared beside him and leaned over the bed, stretching out to reach the buttons of the EKG screen. It flickered to life a second later, and Damian stared at the irregular jags.

"Why is her heart beating that fast?" he asked, comparing the pace of the heartbeats with the slow breaths.

"She's in pain." Drake turned the screen off again. "And I think the chemo damaged her heart."

Life-support wasn't new to Damian. Although a troubling sight, there had always been an assuring factor about it. The numerous times Grayson had been hooked up to it so far had been temporary, only until the poison wore off, the wounds were healed or bones set again. _This_ was different. _This_ was... sad. And when he tried to imagine Dick lying on that bed, despite all of Damian's experience, he found that he couldn't.

"I always thought of Dick as the most lively person ever," Tim suddenly whispered, eyes never leaving Margaret's face. "He couldn't hold still for five minutes if his life depended on it. All those times on life-support or drugged by Alfred or Leslie, he still kept twitching somehow. Roy and Wally invented a drinking game about it when they had to watch him during their Titans days..."

Tim's voice sounded teary now, but Damian couldn't think of any insult or comeback. He was watching Margaret for any signs of movement, but there wasn't even twitching behind her eyelids.

"And he was always the most honest person I know. In fact, I think he's the only one of us who's not hiding behind any masks or personality, but trying to be true to himself. When I first heard about the living will," Damian could hear Tim swallowing hard, "I _wanted_ to be mad at him _so badly_. But I couldn't, because being hooked on that machine for who knows how long just wouldn't be _him_."

Drake was talking sense for once, even though Damian wished he didn't. He felt a hand squeezing his shoulder, hesitatingly at first, but then with firm pressure. Damian didn't shake it off, but tried to analyze the former Robin, if only to keep his thoughts away from Dick. Was he trying to offer comfort? Why would he, after everything Damian had said and done to him? It was such a Grayson thing to do...

It always came back to Grayson, and that was the scariest thing in this whole mess. How could they ever do without him? Tim was afraid to lose his big brother, and Damian realized with a start that he was, too.

"Jason and I will leave for Europe tonight..."

########## ############### #########

"...so we'll need a plane, a fast one."

Jason waited for a reply, any reply. He had rattled down his speech in one go, speaking to Bruce's back and tried very hard not to look on the hospital bed Bruce was so adamantly staring at. Dick was lying there, out of surgery for a couple of minutes before Jason and Alfred had stepped into the room, and Jason wasn't sure if he could talk about leaving for days if he took a closer look. Damn, he had become a sappy idiot...

"Bruce."

Alfred had taken a seat beside the bed at once, leaving Jason to advocate their mission alone. Though he tried to keep telling himself that they didn't need Bruce's approval he was antsy, and the asshole in front of him wouldn't say a word.

"_Bruce._"

"You want to go with them, Alfred?" At least Bruce reacted, finally. The two men started to discuss in hushed voices, and Jason was left to feeling like the third wheel. Since there was nothing left for him to do or say – he had packed everything into the speech he had given earlier – there wasn't a good excuse not to look at the bed any longer, so he stepped closer.

Dick looked tired and exhausted, even while sound asleep, but Jason's gaze didn't linger on the dark circles beneath his eyes, wandering to his brother's chest instead. There were tubes breaking through his skin at various points, tubes that hadn't been there before. One of them was inserted into Dick's subclavian vein, right above his heart. Two white tubes hung from it, not yet attached to any machine or IV-line. Only a few inches above that insertion site, another tube broke the skin, longer and thinner, already connected to a brown bag that hung from an IV pole.

Jason knew enough about medicine to recognize artificial feeding, but it still hit him like a brick wall. Unconsciously, his fingers wrapped around one of Dick's hands, eyes never leaving the puncture sites. They were still covered in orange and yellow iodine from the surgery to prevent infection. Dick had never looked so sick to Jason, even though he knew that those tubes would keep him alive for a while longer.

"Hang in there," he heard himself whisper, "we've got this."

He was embarrassingly reminded that he wasn't alone in the room when he felt Bruce's gaze on him. Feeling the blush creeping over his cheeks, Jason turned to see Alfred and Bruce watching him closely. He let go of Dick's hand just when Bruce spoke up.

"Okay," he said, and started to rummage through the pockets of his pants. "You'll take the Batwing, but always keep it in stealth mode." He threw a set of keys into Jason's direction, who caught them and stared at the shiny metal.

"Did you really just throw the keys to_ the Batwing_ at me?" What a fucking déjà vu, Jason almost choked on the irony.

"Tim knows the codes; I don't want to write them down."

"Yeah, sure, but.. did you really just throw the keys to the Batwing at_ me_?"

A sad smile appeared on Bruce's lips as he swept his gaze to his sick son on the bed. "I've been told that it's my turn to reciprocate."*

"Reciprocate?" Jason didn't understand what was going on, and suddenly Bruce was stepping closer and taking the keys out of Jason's still outstretched hands again.

"This one is for ignition, this one for the activation of the weapons. Don't use it. I trust you to keep an eye on Tim; I don't think he's slept in a few days." Jason flinched visibly at that last sentence, but then Bruce handed the keys over and looked him in the eye. "And we'll talk when you're back."

They were definitely having a moment; an awkward and strange one since neither of them were good with words and didn't know what to say next, but a moment nonetheless. Luckily, the replacement and Devil Spawn decided to burst into the room just then.

Jason broke away from Bruce and snatched the teen before he could open his mouth and dragged him across the room into a corner.

"Are they in?"

"They are. What was that about the Devil Spawn?"

Tim's expression grew firm at once. "He's coming with us."

"Like hell." Jason crossed his arms and glared at said boy, who was standing next to the hospital bed.

"We can't leave him here. And he wants to help."

"He'll kill us all."

"We can keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't contact Ra's or his mother again."

That was an argument, one Jason couldn't think of anything to say against. So their mission to Europe was turning into a family trip. Fuckshit.

-tbc-

*This goes back to chapter 9, in which Dick chews out Bruce about his behaviour towards Jason.

**Medical termini:**

**Hickman-catheter: **central venous catheter that can be used for various preocedures, such as chemotherapy or withdrawal of blood, and most common used in long-term dialysis.

**suprapubic bladder catheter**: is a urine catheter inserted through the skin above of the pelvic bone directly into the bladder. It isn't as prone to infections as the 'ordinary' urethral catheter, and therefore a better choice for long-term use.

**HLA, serotyping, loci: **

**the HLA (Human Leukocyte Antigen) **is a molecule on the surface of every cell. Those molecules mediate interaction with the immune system's leukocytes – this means that this molecule 'tells' the leukocyte if that cell is a foreign cell or not. If it's foreign, the leukocyte will attack and ultimately kill it. This is a crucial step in organ transplantation, since a donor has to be found who's HLA match so much with the recipients' that the leukocytes are 'fooled'.

To find out if the HLA-type of a donor matches, one has to look at his or her **loci.** A **locus** is the location of a gene/ gene sequence on a chromosome. A large number of genes are responsible for the immune system and its function, and they all sit on chromosome 6. Checking out the loci of a chromosome is called **serotyping**. If the HLA-type is considered a match depends on the variability of three (or more) loci; the more identical loci, the better.

**Radiation: **The recipient has to undergo **radiation** before a transplantation can be done. This means that the bone marrow of the patient will be completely destroyed! When no cancerous cell is left (**remission**) and no source of cancerous cells (**goal of radiation**) is left, the transplantation can be done. The stem cells of the donor then find their way to their designated places on their own and start to produce blood cells – they form a new bone marrow!

####### ############# ###########

_Genetics... ugh, I highly recommend you do your own research if your interested, because the whole thing is a) fascinating and b) hard to explain. I hope I did okay. I should have introduced a few of the terms earlier, and now it would have been too ridiculous to let Tim or Jason (especially Tim) behave as if they didn't have a clue about them. _

_Time to come back to some reviewers' issues:_

**-the Martian/shape shift thing:**_ Megan changed her blood type and donated it to the soon-to-be Beastboy in YJ, so why not let her change her stem cell type (→ HLA type)? Frankly I still think there's a difference between changing your blood type and changing your chromosomes. Changing chromosomes means changing your DNA, means changing your 'being-Martian'.. how would they change back, then? Another reviewer said that they actually _can_ do it; but as soon as the blood or tissue leaves their bodies, it changes back into Martian tissue and blood, which accounts for why the boy in the YJ episode later became the shape shifter Beastboy... I don't want a green Dickiebird, it wouldn't match his eyes ;) (and don't tell me the colour of his eyes would also change. I'll start to cry!). I'll gladly discuss this further with you, but I'd ask you to write me a PM in that case. I don't think it should take up more space in my A/Ns or your reviews, since it just won't happen in this story. I hope that doesn't come across as bitchy, because I don't mean in that way^^_

**Is this story coming to its end?**_ Yes. Only a handful of chapters left!_

**Why don't they use the bone marrow from another parallel universe's Dick? **_Good question. Because I have no idea about parallel universes in the DC world or how to get there. Also, I'm trying to aim for a more realistic version of the Bat-Universe, so no parallel worlds, no shape shifters.(ha, I just used 'realistic version' and 'Bat-Universe' in one sentence, how ridiculous is _that_?! XD )_

**Can you bring in more heroes? Like Clark, Wally, Roy, Diana, etc? **_No, unfortunately not. As it is, I'm already pretty overwhelmed with the handful of characters I have. I'd love to bring in Dick's friends (who's absence in this is as sad as it is inexcusable) or Clark as Bruce's moral support, but I just don't know how to give them actual roles. I don't want a character like Clark to only stand in the corner and have two lines per chapter :/_


	25. Chapter 23

_Medical termini will be explained at the end of chapter._

LIFELINES

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

'Fuckshit' didn't describe the situation. It didn't even come close. In fact, no word in Jason's vocabulary was adequate to paint the picture, and that was a scary thought since Jason's vocabulary was _very_ extensive.

So Jason tried to look at the situation at hand from a different angle, find irony or maybe an educational approach into the psychology of idiots. Everything positive the situation might have had collapsed, sadly, under the knowledge that they were 40,000 feet above the freaking Atlantic Ocean while Damian and Tim were throwing hygiene products at each other.

And they would remain 40,000 feet above the water for at least six hours, then fly over parts of Europe for another couple of hours. Without any doors to slam or private rooms to retreat into, because this new Batwing was much smaller than the last Batplane he had been in. He highly suspected that Tim hid that information beforehand, because Jason would have never said yes to travelling to Europe if he had known. As it was, only a few seats offered protection from flying shaving foam cans and toothpaste.

Toothpaste tubes hurt when it hit you right on the ear. Oww.

Alfred had disappeared into the small cockpit, the clever bastard. Too small for two; Jason had already tried that, and Alfred's sympathetic faҫade when he found out hadn't even come close to looking real.

"You are a sorry excuse for a living being and your whole family should be castrated to prevent any more of your like!"

– _BAMM!- _ The Amazing Flying Hairbrush hit the wall behind Drake.

"Then why don't you start with it, _brother_!?"

Jason ducked just in time to avoid a throwing star – _what the fuck?! _At this point, he didn't even know who had thrown it. After forty minutes of screaming and throwing anything in range, both factions had the same amount and sort of ammunition. Jason wasn't too surprised by the Devil Spawn's behaviour – he was a spoiled 10-years-old with assassin training and anger management issues – but the replacement's reaction was unprecedented. He had seen both of them yell at each other, sure. The entire population of Gotham had. But he had never witnessed the origins of those arguments (or was it one never-ending argument?), and he had been shocked to see how easily Damian wound him up, how fast Tim consented to violence and slander. Not even an hour ago, the replacement had given them a quick, sober introduction into genetics and relevant medical stuff, and now...?

They reminded him a little bit of himself and Dick, back when they used to cross each others' paths on Gotham's roof tops and one of them was edgy enough to start a fight. Which happened, like, every time. One mean comment for a witty comeback, followed by a threat, a mock, and then the great explosion and a fight. Sometimes exclusively verbal but mostly physical. They knew exactly what to do or say to push the other over the edge, just like Damian and Tim right in front of him.

Still, Dick and Jay had never thrown blow dryers at each other, at least not that he remembered. Dick _did_ throw a raccoon at him once, much to his and the raccoon's vexation. Hmm...

"YOU ARE NOT MY BROTHER!"

"Yes I am, shitface! Bruce adopted me! I guess he wanted to have least _one_ kid he liked to carry his name!"

Jason understood now why 'reconcile Damian and Tim' had been top priority on Dick's to-do-before-I-die list. Because it would never, ever, happen on its own with those two.

Then a big shard of a broken shampoo bottle embedded itself into the fabric of the seat Jason was leaning against only two inches away from his face, and he snapped.

"That's fucking it!" he screamed, diving over the seat straight into the two squabblers who were trying to stab each other with toothbrushes. "You will shut up and sit down for Christ's sake or I swear I'll throw you out of that plane! No wonder Dick didn't want to go back to the manor, jeez!"

He said the last part more to himself than to Tim and Damian, but while they weren't fazed by the threats he spewed out earlier, _that_ made them freeze up and widen their eyes..._Oh fuck,_ Jason just realized what he had said.

"Did … did he really say that?" Tim asked and was doing the Disney-face on him: big eyes, quivering lip. _Fuck fuck fuck._

"No, he didn't. It's the Golden Boy we're talking about, he's not even capable of thinking something like that."

"_Of course_ he wouldn't want to return to a loud buffoon like you, Drake." Though there was spite in Damian's voice, he had averted his gaze and his hands had sunk limply to his sides.

"We _were _kind of loud when he was with us, weren't we...?"

"How should I know?!" Jason snapped, scolding himself at the same time and wondering how he had ended up in this situation. There was a reason why people usually didn't come to _him_ with their problems, goddammit! "Listen, everything is fine. He's fine, we're fine, so suck it up, okay?"

His efforts to be reassuring sounded ridiculous, even to his own ears. Apparently, another item on Dick's to-do-before-I-die list wouldn't be happening in anyone's lifetime – Jason was _so_ not cut out for the big brother role. And true, Tim and Damian were both staring at the ground now, lost in their own trains of thought.

"He wouldn't have been exposed to the benzene for that long if he came home earlier..." Tim murmured, and before Jason could think of something to say, the Devil Spawn had pivoted in his heels and stormed off, right into the cockpit to Alfred. _Shit._

"Crap," Jason cursed, turning around to the replacement. " And since when do _you_ take everything I say to heart? I thought you of all people knew how my speech centre works."

"Yeah: insult, curse, frustrated 'I'll kill you all', then repeat," Tim answered with a small smile, and Jason decided to let that pass _for once_. "And I don't take it to heart."

"Awesome. Now do the same with what the Devil Spawn is saying."

"I can't." Exasperated, Tim ran a hand through his hair. "I'm trying to ignore him, but he just keeps pushing me."

"You never reacted like that when I pushed you."

"Yeah, well, while Damian is just his usual evil snotty self, you actually _have_ a reason to hate me."

Surprised, Jason turned his head to stare at the teen in front of him; he had not expected _that._

But Tim nodded when he saw Jason's expression and shrugged with his shoulders. "Dick's been trying to make me see it for a while now. I get it, really, though it has become kinda obsolete and ridiculous over the times."

"Careful, shithead," Jason growled. "And here you were doing so nicely except for the last part."

"But it's true. I have been replaced as well now. If anything, we should share a mutual hate against Damian."

Jason barked out a laugh to hide that he was very much shocked at the Replacement's.. the _former_ _Replacement_'s... insights. Dick _had _been doing a good job, damn. "I'm sure Dick didn't tell you that, apart from the fact that you obviously don't hate the little shit."

"Oh, don't get me started, Todd," Tim sneered, and Jason rolled his eyes.

"Come on, we both know you would accept him as family if only he accepted you. He's a pain in the ass, but he is Bruce's son and you are loyal enough to deal with that."

"...so he kept telling you about us, too, right?" Tim asked suddenly, after staring at Jason for a while. "Dick, I mean. Did he talk a lot about us?"

"Shit, he wouldn't shut up about the two of you. Why?"

"Did he tell you stuff you didn't know about before? Stuff that makes you look at conversations in a different light?"

"Yeah," Jason replied, unsure. Given their little talk right now, that was pretty obvious. He didn't like where this was going, though.

Tim laughed silently, shaking his head. "Oh man, that was his plan all along. He just kept telling us stuff we would have never told each other, so we can't ignore it in the next confrontation... and it works."

"Shit."

"He's good."

"_Shit_."

########### ################ ###############

Bruce was staring at the document in his hands, trying to ignore the guilty twinge in his chest as he read the lines. One single piece of paper that could change so much, save yet destroy his whole world. He didn't have to use it, he tried to keep in mind, but he knew he would. And then Dick couldn't learn about its existence, _ever_. He'd never forgive him.

As it was, Bruce wasn't sure if Dick would forgive him for 'just' ignoring his living will. The document in his hands went a step further, it legalized his illegal actions, and Bruce wondered if he himself would be able to deal with it.

But then he looked up and met the confused gaze of dazed blue eyes, and dropped the sheet immediately on the small table he had carried into the secluded room.

"Bruce...?" Dick asked slowly, voice thick.

Swallowing hard, Bruce first looked at the not even half-emptied bottle of chemo medicine before he walked across the room to his son's bedside. Just an hour ago he would have been elated to see Dick awake – the boy hadn't woken up since his fever had broken a few days ago. He had been drugged out of his mind then, but the doctors insisted on discontinuing the medication after the late-night surgery. The chemo therapy that had started maybe fifty minutes ago would put a great burden on Dick's already damaged kidneys, and the nephrologist worried that additional medication would be too much, scheduled dialysis or not. It was the right decision, Bruce knew, but it also meant that there wouldn't be any sedatives or analgetics to ease the chemo effects.

"How are you?" Bruce asked when he sat down on the bed, trying to smile reassuringly. Dick looked at him through half-closed lids, pale and tired. Careful not to disturb any of the various tubes Dick mercifully hadn't noticed yet, Bruce leaned over the bed to turn down the volume of the EKG.

Dick's wavering gaze followed him, not responding to his question for a while. His blood pressure was low, and he was very likely nauseated from the chemo. Then, finally, a shaking hand came up and brushed over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't... feel so good..."

Bruce nodded solemnly, watching the shaking arm closely. He was waiting for Dick to catch up with what was happening; no doubt he would recognize the side-effects. Sure enough, when Dick's hand came to rest on the pillow again, his eyes started to dart through the room, lingering briefly at the medical machinery and the strange furniture of the room.

"What's going on?" he asked in a hushed voice, big fearful eyes wandering up to Bruce's face to find reassurance. But Bruce was failing miserably; he could feel his smile fade. Scared, Dick averted his gaze and eventually noticed the bottle hanging above his head, the one with the well-known biohazardous warning on it.

He jerked upwards onto his elbows and realized for the first time that there weren't only EKG electrodes attached to his chest. With wide eyes, Dick took in the sight of new tubes that came out of the hem of the flimsy hospital shirt, one of which was indeed connected to the chemo medicine. The EKG jags in the background started to go faster, and worried, Bruce wanted to calm him down, but couldn't find the words to.

When he tried to rest a hand on Dick's shoulder, the boy shifted into a sitting position in a fluid movement that reminded Bruce painfully of his past grace, and lifted the blankets that covered his mid-section. Dick blanched immediately when he saw the catheter protruding beneath his belly button – another tube that hadn't been there before. He was just about to open his mouth to say something when the numbers on the EKG screen that indicated his blood pressure suddenly dropped and he slumped forward, hands pressing against his stomach.

Immediately Bruce reached out to steady him, to help him shift into a position that would enable him to vomit, but the dry heaves and coughs soon reminded him that Dick was connected to artificial nutrition and there wasn't anything to throw up in his son's stomach.

Dick's chokes had somewhat calmed down to short gasps when Andrea, the nurse on duty, burst into the room, alarmed by the accelerated heartbeats and low blood pressure her monitor had shown her. She stood rooted to the spot when she saw her patient up and supported by an awkward embrace, lifting one eyebrow in Bruce's direction as if saying 'told you so'. Dick didn't notice her, but got his breathing under control enough to jerk his arms away from Bruce and hiss "What did you do?!"

"Listen... there is still time left," Bruce began, but he knew how futile arguments were right now. Dick knew what was going on already. Instead of reasoning, he therefore tried to gently push Dick back into the pillows before he could hurt himself by yanking at one of the tubes and needles. Dick wouldn't comply of course, but kept slapping his hands away weakly and tried to get out of the bed.

"Do you want to use the restraints?" Andrea asked calmly from the threshold, making Bruce flinch and Dick freeze in shock.

The older man shook his head fiercely at her, while he still held Dick's wrists in a firm grasp. The boy stared at him in disbelief and then dropped his gaze to the limb restraints that were fastened to the bed rails.

"Dick," Bruce tried again, feeling how the fight left the other's body and letting go of his wrists.

"You..." Dick whispered, eyes wide, "you'd really go there, would you?"

Bruce would, they both knew. When he had ordered the hospital bed it had arrived with the bed restraints already attached, and on first impulse he had tried to get them off the rails. Halfway through, though, the nurse who helped him reminded him that Dick could easily hurt himself should he ever wake up and disagree with what was happening to him. He could try to rip out the tubes, stopping the treatment and endangering himself thus. Bruce hated the thought of chaining his son down, but had to agree as a last resort. Dick _was_ stubborn, after all.

Right now, though, Dick simply slumped back against the pillows and turned his head away from Bruce, closing his eyes.

"Dick." Bruce reached out a hand, but Dick interrupted the action before he could touch his shoulder.

"Don't," he said simply, voice faint now the adrenaline had left his body as quickly as it came.

Bruce drew back his hand and fell into silence, trying to respect at least this one wish of his son for distance.

############# ################### ###########

Jason had slept for a few hours, after Tim and Damian's mutual sulk had enabled silence, blissful silence, to fill the plane. It had been a while since he slept well, the last days having been really upsetting, so Jason wasn't thrilled when he opened his eyes to see the Babybird towering above him.

"Todd," he sneered, "wake up. We'll arrive in Great Britain in an hour and Drake wants to go through the material."

Sighing, Jason got up and joined the brat and the older brat in front of Tim's laptop. Alfred would be joining them in a few minutes, after he had decided on a good landing place near Norwich where no one would find them.

"Alright, former Boy Wonder, what do you have?"

Tim clicked a few times and a picture of Amelia Brooke appeared on the screen.

"This is Amelia. She's 34, of Romanian decent. Married an Englishmen who died of pulmonary cancer five years ago, now remarried. No children. She's an organ donor, so she will likely donate."

"What makes you think that?"

"Most people decide to donate their organs and sign some documents. You need to register separately for donations that happen while you are still alive. People tend to forget that."

"Or they don't want to be cut open."

"Todd is right," Damian interrupted. "How should we convince her to undergo the procedure?"

"That's the awesome thing," Tim beamed at them. "She doesn't have to! There are different ways to donate bone marrow. There's another method apart from the harvesting; peripheral blood cell stem donation!"

Tim was growing all excited now, and Jason furrowed his brow. "Never heard of it."

"It's pretty new. The donor will have to swallow a drug for five days that increases the hematopoietic stem cell level in the blood, and then they just have to do something like dialysis! Their blood is drawn out through their arms, the stem cells are separated via a machine, and the rest of the blood returns into the body."

"Five days?" Damian asked, troubled, and Tim's excitement toned down somewhat.

Five days was a long time. Even though the procedure sounded awesome, much easier to convince someone about, Dick was in critical condition. They might not have five days, especially since they couldn't expect Amelia's consent at once, and then had to get to that other patient in Romania. Jason had hoped they would be back in Gotham in five days already, but apparently they'd need longer, at least twice as long.

"It sucks, yeah," Tim agreed. "But we will have to travel to Romania and talk to Traian, so we'll spend some time in Europe anyway. I thought we could collect the donated marrow on our way back."

"What's your plan?"

"That's why I wanted Alfred to come along. He'll stay with Amelia while we go to Romania. After we convince her, we set things up – the hospital, the drug, the donation. It's an easy procedure if you have the machinery, and Alfred is more than capable."

"You want him to play the doc?" Jason asked for clarification, lips twitching. Alfred would _love_ that.

"Exactly. He's perfect for the role. Old enough to fake trustfulness and experience, with the perfect accent to fake familiarity. I already talked to Barbara, she's working his doctor-persona into Norwich's main hospital computer system right now. The machinery and drugs are stored there... and I trust Alfred completely to get access to them."

All three batboys broke into wide grins at the thought of good ol' Alfred arguing with some janitor about access to a certain room. Alfred on the quest to save his grandson... nothing could go wrong, nobody said no to Alfred. _Ever_.

"That's awesome, replacement," Jason said without conscious thought. "So how do we get her into the hospital?"

"I don't know..."Tim answered, and the other two flinched in surprise.

"What?!" Damian exploded, jumping to his feet and balling his fists, "You drag us away from Grayson and then admit you don't have a plan?! You are the most idiotic, incompetent-"

Jason grabbed the laptop and zoned out the yelling after Tim rose to the bait and fired back at Damian. He scrolled through Amelia's file, trying to think of something.

Her first husband died of cancer, yes, but of the wrong kind. Also, if they wanted to convince her, they'd need to do so only with their personalities; they didn't have time to draw up something big, like a general donation appeal... but maybe they could fake it. Hmm.

Jason looked up to watch the two in front of him. A 10-year-old kid, a teen, and a young man. He and Tim were too young to seriously flirt with her, and Amelia didn't have any children...

Jay scrolled upwards, to her own childhood, and... a genuine smile appeared at his face.

"Damian," he called out, and the two of them broke apart immediately. "Can you cry?"

"What?!" A blush crept across the kid's face. "What kind of question is that, you moron?"

"Can you cry? On command?"

"-tt-, of course, Todd. I have been trained by the be-"

"Then she won't stand a chance."

Jason turned the screen around and highlighted a sentence in Amelia's file – her mother died of bacterial meningitis when her daughter was only twelve years old. In a perverse logic, this was perfect; just what they needed. Meningitis was curable, and the family had moved to England after the doctors in Romania had failed to act quickly enough. Amelia wouldn't turn them down after seeing a kid crying for his mother, not if she could actually do something to help.

"We don't have to tell her the truth, right?" Jason asked rhetorically. "We'll tell her that we are looking for marrow for my wife and your mother."

Damian, who the last part was directed to, looked wary, but Tim was already grinning broadly. This could work. Jason looked older than his 21 years; he could pass for 26, maybe 27. Damian could pass for 8 if he acted accordingly – they would confront Amelia with a dying spouse and mother, nothing could go wrong.

"See, I told you we would think of something on the way!" Tim was practically dancing, and yes, right now this sounded too good to be true.

"What will we do with the other guy in Romania? We don't have time to wait for another five days, and we won't convince him in the same way."

"We'll improvise," Damian spoke up, surprising his two older brothers with a huge grin on his face and more enthusiasm than they had ever seen in him. "First we have to get that slut."

"Yeah, we're gonna get that slut!" Much to Jason's amusement, the Babybirds high-fived at 'slut', probably for the first time in their acquaintance, a little bit drunk with excitement.

"_Master Timothy_!" – A harsh, incredulous voice echoed through the plane and made Tim wince. He turned around to a very unpleasant looking Alfred Pennyworth, who had crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.

"What did I just have to hear? Is that how I taught you to talk about women?"

Tim cringed and murmured several "I'm sorry"s, while Jason and Damian barely contained their laughter.

...maybe Jason _could_ get used to all that brother-shit.

############## ########### #########

Dick refused to talk with Bruce again, wouldn't even look at him.

During the whole procedure of his first chemo administration Dick had ignored him, until Bruce didn't know what else to do. It had always been Dick who had kept their conversations alive, had coaxed out answers and laughter, and without him Bruce was at a loss.

He didn't want to tell his son about the whereabouts of the others, because he didn't want to bring up false hope. It was kind of ironic now that Dick knew Bruce would keep him alive for as long as possible, but Bruce feared that Dick would feel left alone if he told him about the trip to Europe. And he didn't dare to tell him about Freeze. Not like this, not as long as Dick wasn't healthy, recovered, and hopefully wrapped up in cotton wool.

So no one talked, and Bruce had been left with listening to Dick taking deep, shuddering breaths, watching how his fingers sometimes curled around the fabric of his blanket or how his body tensed up when another wave of pain or nausea washed over him.

He refused to talk to the medical staff, too. The oncologist had been excited to see him awake after the chemo, but Dick barely acknowledged his presence, only nodded a few times when asked specific questions. It was wrong to see him so sullen, so apathetic. Only once did he actually turn his head to look at the nurse and ask how much Bruce paid them. Mrs Monaghan had flinched as if she had been bitten by a snake, and Dick averted his gaze again when he saw that he wouldn't get an answer.

As soon as he wasn't connected to the chemo tube anymore and had more leeway in movement, Dick turned away from Bruce and curled into a tight ball, facing the wall. Bruce was left looking at his back or staring at the EKG screen, which told him more than his son would. He stayed awake, listening and watching it all. The numbers that indicated Dick's blood pressure told him about nausea, the heart rate about pain. When Dick's irregular breathing slowed down, Bruce knew he was either dozing off or lost to short periods of unconsciousness.

Bruce didn't go to sleep, even though another hospital bed had been pushed into the room for exactly that purpose. Instead he kept watching the rise and fall of his son's chest, the irregular jags of the screen, not allowing himself to miss anything. He couldn't be mad at Dick; on the contrary, he understood him perfectly. But he still pulled him through hell, and this situation now was his punishment. Every time Dick fell asleep or passed out, the bile in Bruce's throat rose at the thought that that could have been the very last time he had been awake. Maybe Dick would never talk to him again.

They stayed like that throughout the night, Bruce watching and Dick suffering through the chemo's side effects. The nephrologist had consented to antinauseants, to spare Dick the pain of constant retching in vain, at least.

The harsh schedule Bruce had set up ordered dialysis on the very next day. Dick didn't protest when the nephrologist attached one of the tubes that came out of his chest, but his posture changed only minutes into the dialysis.

His heart rate went up, his blood pressure sank. Dick was lying on his back again, and was staring up at the ceiling. His eyelids fluttered shut again and again, he was slipping in and out of consciousness, while Bruce just hoped he would pass out soon. The dialysis was affecting him strongly, obviously, and halfway through Dick gave up his stance and shifted to the side facing Bruce, not able to pull the IV-pole close enough to turn into the other direction.

Worriedly, Bruce leaned in closer, afraid that something new had come up. Dick barely took notice of him, just stared ahead and regularly closed his eyes again, as if in pain.

"Dick," Bruce asked softly, trying to speak to him for the first time today, "do you need any more medication?"

Dick's glance flickered up to him, only half-conscious and confused, but Bruce finally realized the dilated, drifting pupils. His son was looking at him, but his gaze kept shifting slightly. Like the room was spinning.

He was dizzy. Dick hated dizziness, vertigo, more than anything else. It meant losing your balance, and losing your balance meant _falling_.

Carefully, Bruce reached out and grabbed one of Dick's hands. Ignoring the first weak attempt to pull away, he grasped the hand firmly in a catcher's grip like Dick had taught him all those years ago.

The effect was immediate; Dick's eyelids fluttered shut, finally staying closed for more than a few seconds, and he relaxed visibly, while Bruce was just glad he didn't pull away. After a few minutes, Dick's breathing evened out and he fell asleep.

Bruce sighed, relieved, but didn't let go.

-tbc-

**medical termini:**

**-harvesting:** is the common term used for drawing bone marrow directly out of the donor's body with a needle. It's basically the same procedure as the bone marrow biopsy, just that a larger amount of material is needed.

**-hematopoietic stem cell**: or promyleoid cell, is the multipotent stem cell of the bone marrow (=myeloid). It's the progenitor of all the blood cells (erythroytes, leukocytes and thromboctyes) and their respective conspecies (leukocytes have many of those). In leukemia, something goes wrong with these promyeloid cells, either in their own development or its further development into the blood cells, and the undeveloped or mutates cells spread.

**-dialysis**: If the kidneys won't work properly anymore thanks to renal failure, a patient has to undergo patient is hooked up to a **dialysis machine**, and the 'dirty' blood is carried into it, gets cleaned, and carried back into the patient body. The process involves diffusion of solutes across a semipermeable membrane (totally copied and pasted that from wikipedia). The process takes about 4 hours and is very (!) strenuous for the patient.

########## ######## ####

_You know, every time I sit down to write a chapter, I tell myself "This is a story that deals with serious issues, so deal with them accordingly" – and then I start to troll Jason (or Timmy, this time). I just can't resist all those wonderful slapstick situations, and the result is an absolute whiplash chapter! Though I have to admit, I love the emotional rollercoaster :D_

_The ending of this story is set in stone, by the way. All that begging, threatening and arguing in your reviews basically only serves to my own vicious enjoyment (very much so. And I love it^^). Some of you showed concern or anger about specific reviews that seemed rude or over the top. I appreciate that, but really, I don't mind it. You can state your opinion in every way you want to, that's what reviews are for (I think I proposed in a review, once ;))! But please don't start flaming your fellow reviewers!_

_Also, any guesses what the mysterious document in Bruce's possession might be?_


	26. Chapter 24

_Medical termini will be explained at the end of the chapter._

LIFELINES

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Bruce woke up to voices nearby, his eyes snapping open when his foggy brain realized that they were indeed_ right beside him_.

He sat up immediately, ready to lash out any moment, much to the oncologist and the nurse's surprise.

"Mister Wayne," Andrea brought out finally, "we wanted to wake you up just now."

Bruce's mind still tried to figure out what was wrong. While the adrenaline had flooded his body in well-honed Batman fashion, his brain tried yet to grasp why he hadn't woken up earlier. Nobody should be able to come near him while he slept; the slightest noise usually woke him up. It had saved his life on many occasions, and the fact that two people were standing only two meters apart from him next to a beeping EKG machine, talking and debating, was unacceptable.

"How long was I asleep?" he growled, raddled, trying to remember how he had ended up in the hospital bed. He had been tired after sitting next to Dick's bedside procedure after procedure, and hadn't allowed himself to sleep since the boys and Alfred left for Europe. He didn't _want_ to, but at some point, the need for sleep had overwhelmed him. Even Batman could only go so far without sleep, and Bruce didn't feel much like Batman lately.

"Only a few hours," Andrea answered; Bruce remembered that Mr Hutchington was on duty when he decided to go to bed, but his train of thought was interrupted when the beeping of the EKG machine turned irregular. All three people turned to the other hospital bed, the one Dick lay in, and fear shot up Bruce's spine – the audio of the EKG had been turned down when he fell asleep, and it certainly hadn't been irregular just seconds ago.

"There it goes again," the oncologist said, emotionless, while Bruce stumbled out of the blankets and towards the bed.

"What's going on?" he asked, looking his son over. Dick hadn't moved since the last time he saw him, still sound asleep... Or passed out, they never knew for sure. Though Bruce's harsh treatment plan had only been in action for a few days, the effects on Dick had been devastating already: he hadn't been able to stay awake during the second chemo administration yesterday, and all his vital signs dropped. Not to a critical level, but the sight had still been appalling. Dick was fading quickly, and the last phone conversation with Alfred had been frustrating, to say the least.

The boys had landed near Norwich last night, had a plan and were optimistic, but still needed time. They couldn't rush into this, couldn't ruin the only chance they got. Each of the boys had to know how and when to play his part, so the first day in Great Britain had been spent with preparations – Tim had been spying on the donor in Norwich, checking out her workplace and her way home; Jason had copied and folded (with much swearing, Bruce imagined) 500 fake information brochures they needed for their set up, while Alfred worked with Oracle on his fake doctor-persona. A whole day, not wasted but bygone, while Dick's blood pressure dropped steadily.

And now his heartbeat? Bruce glared at the irregular jags on the screen and willed them away.

"He's having episodes of arrhythmia," the doctor said finally, never taking his eyes off the screen. "We don't know yet how serious it is."

Arrhythmia? Bruce swallowed thickly; this wasn't good. They had enough problems with keeping his kidneys working. If Dick's heart stopped working properly now, time was running out even faster.

"Tell me more."

The nurse sighed. "It started a few hours ago, shortly after you fell asleep. We think it's a case of atrial fibrillation due to cardiotoxicity."

"Atrial fibrillation?" Bruce blanched. He knew what cardiotoxicity meant – the chemo medication was damaging the cells of Dick's heart, resulting in heart muscle failure. The same thing had basically happened to his kidneys, and Bruce shuddered at the thought what other havoc the treatment had wreaked in his son's body.

"The most common form of cardiac arrhythmia," the doctor explained and Bruce relaxed somewhat; if it was common, they probably had a solution. "The electrical impulses that generate his heartbeat are disorganized thanks to muscle failure."

"What are his options?"

The two medics exchanged a glance. "A heart might recover without long-term defects on its own, and so far the arrhythmic episodes are few and short..."

"But that's not likely," Bruce finished for the nurse when she lingered.

"It's very likely if we stop giving him chemothera-"

"Unacceptable." Stopping medication would kill Dick.

"... we might lower the dosage."

"No. He needs to be in remission as soon as possible."

Andrea sighed deeply. "There is medication that can help him regulate his heartbeat."

"His kidneys are already overwhelmed as it is," the doctor disagreed.

Bruce watched them thoroughly, trying to see if there was anything they didn't tell him. "What's the standard procedure for arrhythmia for a non-palliative patient?"

"Cardioversion," both said simultaneously, as if the word wouldn't echo in Bruce's ears anyway.

"Then do that," he ordered roughly and ignored the two appalled stares.

"But Mr Wayne, cardioversion is no long-term solution," Andrea tried to argue. "As long as he gets chemo, his heart will weaken!"

"Keeping him alive is topmost priority. We can deal with the rest later." Even as he said it, Bruce felt sick. Either he stopped damaging his son's heart and consented to let him die, or he forced him to live and risked permanent heart damage. He briefly wondered what he had done to deserve such a decision, but then he remembered: taking the matter out of Dick's own hands and into his.

Andrea and the doctor left the room bewildered but nodding, promising to speak with the nephrologist about possible medication nonetheless.

Bruce was left alone with his sick son, and suddenly he couldn't go on staring at Dick's still form. He missed the 'ridiculously hyperactive ball of moronic energy that even got overexcited about _Drake'_, as Damian once, very accurately, had described his big brother, and he felt the sudden urge to confirm that he was still in there somewhere.

He reached down and shook Dick's shoulders gently, calling his name. All he got in response were twitching eyelids and an unhappy groan. That was more of his son's voice than he had heard in days. Dick still wasn't talking to him, but by now he probably wasn't able to anymore. In the short periods in which he had been awake he had stopped ignoring Bruce so pointedly, but they still hadn't talked. There wasn't much to say, Bruce found out; everything seemed inane and irrelevant. And Dick wouldn't be able to follow a conversation now anyway.

He wouldn't wake up now either, so Bruce stopped trying and sat down next to bed. The EKG started to beep irregularly again and Bruce reached out to squeeze one hand.

########## ########## #########

_"Target spotted."_

The phrase was a short one, spoken softly, but Jason and Damian both tensed up. Out of the corner of his eye, Jason watched how Damian turned in another direction, offering brochures to passersby and slowly but steadily distancing himself from Jason.

_"Move closer to the fountain. A few metres to your right. Wait. She went into the book store!"_

Damian swore under his breath, unnoticed by the people walking past him but clearly audible over their comm link. Jason held his tongue and stayed in his role, smiling charmingly at an older guy and handing him a brochure.

His nerves were stretched to the breaking point, but there was just no way he would screw this up. After a night during which no one had gotten any sleep, the big day had come.

_"She's on her way again. Twenty metres distance, Damian."_

_"Understood."_

"Don't blow this up, Babydevil," Jason muttered, not daring to turn around to watch how his little brother was doing. They had a strict plan, and Jason was not going to differ from it one bit. Damian shut his comm link off with an audible click, turning out any distractions, and Jason could hear Tim taking a deep breath.

_"He's running over to her; she'll see him any second now."_

"Safe lives, donate," Jason called out to a young woman who took one of his brochures. They were cheap things, a three times folded booklet with general information about stem cell donation and leukemia. Jason and Damian needed them to look convincing, as if they had spent all day on that marketplace in Britain and tried to mobilize donors. Most people passed them by or took the brochures only to throw them into the next bin. Jason didn't mind; all he needed was Amelia's consent and a good background story. Maybe she had seen him and Damian when she had looked out of her office building today; they had positioned themselves carefully in front of her window.

_"Jason, now!"_

Immediately he fell into his role and started to turn around, trying to look like he was scanning the place for a child of Damian's height.

"Tom?" he called, not too loud but loud enough for a few people to hear him. "Thomas?"

Then he spotted Damian and Amelia; Damian with his back to Jason like agreed, and just when Amelia averted her glance upward and met his, Jason shouted "Tom!" louder and broke into a slight jog. Tim whispered a soft _"Good luck."_

He reached the pair and grabbed Damian's sleeve, not too harsh but firmly. "Thomas, what did I tell you about running off?!"

"I didn't run off." Damian turned to him defiantly, but without his usual arrogance and anger. With his lower lip slightly protruding, he looked and sounded just like normal kid. Jason's lips twitched.

"I told you to stay where I can see you!"

"You found me, didn't you?" _Still a brat.._ they didn't prepare any lines to learn by heart, just a rough course of action. Too many factors could go wrong as soon as an unknown variable joined the game, and they couldn't miss their chance just because Amelia might be an impolite slut that interrupted their carefully crafted dialogues.

Mumbling a contrite "Sorry" into Amelia's direction, Jason shifted his grip and tried to pull Damian away, already launching into what could have been a great lecture, but Damian suddenly screamed "No!", yanked his arm away and dashed back to Amelia.

The woman had just taken a confused step forward on her path again when Damian bumped into her and grabbed her leg. The sudden attack made her yelp in surprise, and Damian buried his face into the fabric of her jacket.

"Tom!" Jason called in fake indignation. "Oh Ma'am, I'm _so_ sorry. He's usually not like this-"

"She hasn't donated yet!" Damian yelled back, making Amelia look at Jason with a shocked "What?"

Jason ran a desperate hand through his hair and closed his eyes. "Jeez, I'm really, _really_ sorry. It's just that we're trying to find bone marrow dona..." he had looked at her properly for the first time and trailed off, staring at her. Amelia furrowed her brow, clearly annoyed now, and Jason visibly shook himself, smiling a sad smile. "Oh wow, you really look a lot like my wife," Jason gestured towards Damian who only tightened his grip, "We're trying to find bone marrow donors to treat her." Unconvinced, he showed her the bag full of brochures he was carrying with him.

Amelia's expression softened immediately, and unconsciously she laid a hand on Damian's head. "She's sick?"

He nodded and then crouched down to reach Damian's eye level. "Leukemia, yes. Hey Thomas, what's up?"

"... she looks like Mom," 'Thomas mumbled, making Amelia pat his short hair again.

Jason sent her an apologetic smile. "We'll give her a flyer and maybe she'll change her mind at home, okay?" Demonstratively, he handed her a brochure, and Amelia opened it dutifully. Damian shifted his glance and looked up at her with huge, wet eyes.

"You'll donate?"

Amelia swallowed, looked at Jason in panic and opened her mouth just when Damian burst into tears. He was wailing so loud out of sudden that both adults flinched, even though Jason had expected it to happen any time. He hadn't expected _this_, though. Damian was crying indeed, big, round crocodile tears and snot running down his face. _Crap_ and he didn't have a camera to keep this moment for forever. _Crap! Crap! Crap!_

_"Jason!"_ A voice hissed into his ears, and yeah, shit, he remembered. Daddy and all that.

"Tommy..." he said coaxingly and maneuvered the crying child into his arms, holding him like a father – ...what Jason thought a father would hold his kid like.. _okay,_ what Jason remembered Bruce doing when he had a nightmare about the streets. He caught Amelia's shocked stare and awkwardly gestured to her that she should just go on.

She shook her head softly, and a knot loosened up in Jason's chest. Amelia lowered herself into a crouching position and placed her hand on top of Damian's head. At once the boy calmed down somewhat, his wailing tuning down to heart-wrenching sobs. Damn, he really was good. Jason almost missed the chance his 'son' was presenting him in admiration of his acting skills.

"I'm sorry, this is a very hard time for us," he told her, stroking over Damian's hair and 'accidentally' touching Amelia's hand. She didn't pull away, and Jason knew the hardest part was over. She had let herself become attached, either out of responsibility or emotionality. He didn't care which one it was.

"She needs bone marrow?" Amelia asked, ignoring the stares of the passersby.

Jason nodded solemnly. "There is no match in the registries. If we would have known sooner we could have started something bigger than _this_..." he trailed of and swallowed hard, hoping she would fall for the act. "She..she wants to die in the country she was born in, so we flew all the way over..."

He had lowered his voice at the last sentence and Amelia had automatically leaned in closer, creating an almost intimate situation. Damian kept on sobbing, but appeared to get a grip on himself.

"My husband died of cancer, too," Amelia told him reassuringly, moving her hand from Damian's back to Jason's arm. Oh yeah, she fell for it _good_. Jason had trouble keeping the grin from his face, but managed to turn the smile that appeared nonetheless into a sad one.

"I'm sorry. It's so hard to let go..." he sniffled once, pointedly.

"I know."

"And just sitting there and watching her die..." Suddenly, there was an image of Dick in front of his inner eye, and the strain in his voice wasn't an act anymore. "This is better than doing nothing, right?"

He grabbed one of the brochures that had fallen to the ground earlier and looked at it disdainfully.

"Is it working?" Amelia never pulled her hand away.

He shook his head and reached for a tissue she handed him, holding it against Damian's nose._ Eww._ The boy shot him a glare and snatched the tissue out of his hands. "It doesn't. Most people that are interested fled as soon as we ask them to take a sample of their tissue right now."

"Right now?"

"An old friend of ours allowed us to use his doctor's office today, over there," Jason nodded to the building on the other side of the market place, automatically searching for the window Tim was observing them from. "We hired a nurse to take the saliva sample, but I guess he must be bored out of his mind by now."

He smiled at her sadly, patted Damian's head one last time and got up, prying his son's arms away. "Come on, Tom. We're heading back to visit Mommy, okay?"

"Stop talking like she'll die!" 'Tom' piped up suddenly, pushing himself away from Jason. "She said she doesn't want to!"

"Please, let's not talk about this in front of all these people.."

"She can't die!" Damian stomped his feet and let few tears roll down his cheeks again. Then he whirled around and grabbed Amelia's jacket again. "You look just like her! It will work!"

"Thomas, I told you it doe-"

Damian's eyes screwed up again, but before he could break into another wail, Amelia knelt down to him and stopped him short. "You know what, honey? I'll go with you into that doctor's office, and you stop crying, okay?"

Jason though he might have a heart attack right on the spot. Damian and he gaped at her speechless, and Tim whispered a breathless _"hallelujah"_ into his ear. When Jason found his voice again, the disbelief was not an act at all.

"Really? You'd... _really?_"

"I'm Amelia, by the way. Amelia Brooke." She smiled the most lovely smile at him and Jason thought he might be falling in love; then again that was probably just the aftermath of the quasi-heart attack he just had.

Clumsily he grabbed the hand she offered him and shook it enthusiastically, making her laugh.

"I'm..." and here the first lapse of their awesome plan became evident; they never talked about a false name for _him_. "...Peter," he said therefore, with remarkably less enthusiasm than just a second before. "Peter Cox."

Tim was huffing his laugh at the other end of the line, and Jason wished he could tell him to shut up. Instead, he took Damian's hand in his and guided Amelia and him over to the office building.

While Jason told Amelia all about Q-tips and saliva samples he heard Tim call out for Alfred and give instructions. Luckily, the doctor's office had the day off today anyway, so all they had to do was break the shitty security and make themselves at home.

When they climbed up the first set of stairs and Jason held the door open for Amelia, a bored, angry-birds-playing red head in a plain hospital uniform greeted them.

"You found someone?" Tim asked with a heavy Irish accent and pushed back the thick glasses to have a better view on Amelia. He didn't wait for a response but rummaged in the drawers of his desk until he found a document he handed to her.

"Fill this out, please. You need to leave a phone number so we can call you if you're a suitable donor. Mr. Cox will cover all your expenses in that case."

"What expenses?" Amelia looked at Jason, confused, but was distracted by a hyperactive Thomas who climbed on the desk next to her, watching her filling out the document.

"If you're our donor, you'll have to schedule appointments in the hospital for a few days to take the medicine and then the marrow. Thomas, get down there!"

Just when Amelia furrowed her brow and went over the document again, Damian shoved a pen into her hands."You need to sign here!"

"Thomas."

"Come on, you need to save my Mom!"

"_Thomas._"

Amelia laughed and signed with one swift motion. She handed the document to Damian and lowered her voice in fake seriousness. "Dr. Cox, the patient is ready."

Luckily she didn't face either Tim or Jason, because both were hardly able to suppress their snickering. Damian though beamed at her excitedly and grabbed the stethoscope on the desk and pushed her into the examination room.

"Damn, he's good," Tim whispered as Amelia and Dr. Cox disappeared.

"And we didn't think about bringing a camera."

"There might be a surveillance cam," Tim grinned at him, and Jason wondered if the day could become any better.

######## ########## #############

Bruce ignored the anesthetist's advise to leave the room and leaned back against the far wall of the hospital room, making sure he could see everything without standing in anyone's way.

The doctors and Mrs Monaghan were moving with bored routine, pushing the dialysis machine out of the way and filling syringes with a clear fluid.

"You said we wouldn't need sedation," Bruce grumbled unhappily, trying to mask his worry but failing spectacularly. He couldn't see any need for medication that would only stress Dick's damaged kidneys, and he didn't trust the procedure he was about to put his son through in the least.

"It's just suprarenin," Mrs Monaghan explained while she attached more EKG electrodes on Dick's chest. "Adrenaline, if his heart should stop for good."

'For good'- Bruce's stomach dropped. Even though cardioversion was a routine measure when it came to atrial fibrillation, he didn't like the idea of deliberately shocking Dick's heart into cessation. Yes, it should start to beat again immediately, hopefully in the sinus rhythm it was supposed to beat in, and the procedure was performed on hundreds of people each day, but still. None of them were in Dick's state, and Bruce couldn't blame anyone but himself for going through with it.

The arrhythmia that had developed yesterday hadn't stopped as they had hoped it would. All through the day and some of the night Bruce had watched Dick's heart beat out of tact for a few minutes, and a few hours ago it had refused to find back to its proper pace.

Dick hadn't woken up again either; didn't react to shaking or calling any more than with slight movement behind his eyelids that vanished quickly. When the irregular beeping of the EKG had also accelerated into tachycardia, the doctors and Bruce scheduled the cardioversion.

_It's only a low shock_, Bruce told himself when Mrs Monaghan attached the defibrillator pads on their designated places on Dick's chest. The doctors themselves hadn't been in unison about the procedure; the oncologist kept reminding Bruce of the weakened state Dick was in. Cardioversion might be a standard procedure, but not for palliative chemo-patients. The list of risks and long-term damage could be read like a horror novel, but it was not as scary as the alternatives.

He had called the boys in Europe and listened to the good news they told him. Then, more resolved than ever, Bruce had called Leslie and asked for her opinion. Needless to say she was angry at him for pulling Dick through hell and vehemently refused to join his team of illegal life-savors, but she gave him her opinion as soon as she realized he really needed it.

They were so close that he couldn't just stop now. He had pushed Dick so far and had to go through the rest as well. Not when they were this close to saving him, not when Victor Fries had been the one to bring them all into these positions.

Bruce felt the bile rising when Freeze crossed his mind. Freeze, who had infected his son with cancer. An innocent person who just happened to be the first adopted son of a billionaire with a large R&D. Bruce hadn't even planned on taking Nora; the Police Department and the town council of Gotham had approached him, since Wayne Industries was the only facility that provided for Nora's special needs. Sure, he had known it would come to this, but still. Making Dick pay for it was too much, hit too close to home. Freeze would have to pay.

And yet, Bruce wasn't able to look into a mirror without seeing the irony of what he was doing. Ignoring Dick's wishes, pulling him through chemotherapy, dialysis and hopefully soon through radiation was awful close to just freezing him until he found a cure. Wouldn't he too pull all the strings he could to save him? Hadn't he already? Illegal surgeries at night, bribing medical personal, paying lawyers to make him Dick's medical proxy so he was able to defend his actions and go through with them til the end?

"We're ready, Mr Wayne."

Bruce nodded solemnly and forced himself to look up. The oncologist had moved to the EKG and watched it closely, hand hovering over the red defibrillator button. Bruce had needed much assurance from Leslie to trust someone else than a cardiologist to do the task, but they all had affirmed that cardioversion was almost as simple nowadays as giving injections. Every doctor could do it, and Bruce didn't dare to bring another possible risk factor into their little group.

As Bruce watched, the doctor slammed down the button and immediately Dick's chest and arms jerked. For a terrible moment, not longer than maybe a second but unbearably long in Bruce's mind, Dick's heart beat flat-lined before it perked up again, as arrhythmic as before.

"Raising the current," the oncologist announced, unfazed, and played around with the buttons.

Bruce steadied himself for the next shock. Watching Dick getting shocked shouldn't be as disturbing as it was. He had seen it a few times already, and usually under even more dire circumstances; the occasional cardiac arrest came with their line of work. The electric current they used during a cardioversion wasn't half as strong as those he had already seen, but he had a harder time coping with them. But they couldn't stop; they were _so close_.

The second shock was stronger, and Dick's body jerked harder, higher. The therapy worked this time, though. After the terrible moment of producing a continuous sound, the green jags reappeared in slow, regular beats.

Bruce closed his eyes and released a breath he hadn't notice he'd held. Crisis averted, however temporary it may be. When he opened his eyes again, the medical staff was already prying off the defibrillator pads and pushed the dialysis machine back into place.

"How long until the next arrhythmic episode?" Bruce asked the oncologist, who shrugged.

"Hard to say. It depends on how long the treatment will keep up."

"My men are making progress; we'll need to start with the radiation soon."

The doctor stared at him, and then turned to Mrs Monaghan with a sigh. "Leave the pads where they are. We'll be needing them again."

They left soon after for their other patients, and the oncologist promised to prepare a schedule for the radiation. Bruce lowered himself on the chair next to Dick's bed and took his hands.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "We're so close; just a little bit longer."

He didn't expect a response, and didn't get one. Somehow Bruce knew that Dick couldn't hear him anymore, and that he'd missed his chance to say those things to him.

-tbc-

**medical terms:**

**atrial fibrillation: **is the most common cardiac arrhythmia. Usually the heartbeat is regulated by an electric impulse: it flits across the various muscle groups of the heart and they contract accordingly. The 'normal' rhythm of this impulse is called the **sinus rhythm**; everything else is arrhythmia. Atrial fibrillation now means that the electric current of the heart is diffused and unorganised, meaning it hits muscle groups when it shouldn't and causing an irregular heartbeat thus. It's a symptom of muscle damage (very, very broadly), and it's seriousness depends on the extend of that damage.

**Tachycardia:** a heartbeat that's too fast is called tachycardic.

**Cardioversion: **medical procedure in which arrhythmia is converted back to sinus rhythm. Since arrhythmia means that the electric impulse of the heart is disturbed, cardioversion tries to apply stronger shocks to the heart to recreate the normal condition. Basically it tries to 'reboot' the electric current of the heart. Those shocks are of a relatively low dosage, and sometimes the patient is even awake during the procedure (not a very comfortable position, nonetheless...). Depending on the cause of arrhythmia, it may or may not serve as a long-term solution.

**Radiation therapy: **medical use of ionizing radiation in order to kill cancerous cells. **Total Body Radiation** is used to prepare patients for bone marrow transplantation. Since the host's bone marrow produces the cancerous cells in leukemia as well as a few healthy cells of the immune system **(leukocytes)**, it needs to be _completely_ destroyed! Every transplantation carries the risk of **immunological rejection**, and with the bone marrow it's even more dangerous. Needless to say, this is _very_ strenuous and dangerous for the patient.

####### ##### #########

_I need to apologize for my terrible time management. When I started to write Lifelines I had two months of semester break ahead and more than enough time at my hands. After the hiatus university started again and my timing has become worse ever since. If I miss a weekly update, never think I dismissed the story – I'm just lazy or procrastinated work until I had to do everything at once._

_I will have to start learning legal vocabulary for the next installment. Most of you have already guessed what the mysterious document in Bruce's possession could be, and I mentioned it now for the first time. Sadly, I suck at everything legal or law related since I tend to fall asleep as soon as I hear the words 'attorney' or 'court', so I apologize in advance if I misuse any legal terms... _

_I swear that I never planned the 'Dr. Cox'-pun in advance. But thinking about it now, there are certain similarities between Scrubs' Dr. Cox and Damian XD.. oh yeah, and why did I even bother with fake names? Because Amelia could just google the Waynes, find out about Dick's leukemia and grasp that they got her data illegally (Yes, she could have recognized Damian, but not Jason (not in the tabloids lately) and Tim (disguised). And since Damian appeared to be Jay's son, I don't think she'd make the connection)._

_Two chapters and an epilogue left! :D_


	27. Chapter 25

_Romanian phrases will be explained at the end of the chapter._

LIFELINES

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Not even twenty-four hours ago they had been celebrating, but now the tension was unbearable and no one dared to speak up.

Jason looked at his watch and sighed; three hours left until they reached Bucharest, and then at least another seven until they could seek out the other donor. It was darkest night outside of the plane, and Jason thought that it fit perfectly with the mood inside.

They had been elated after Amelia consented to register for bone marrow donation – even Alfred had grinned like a fool as they returned to the plane – only to be brought back down to earth by a phone call from Bruce: Dick's heart was failing, and time was running out.

They had still needed to wait until the next day to call Amelia with the 'good news', and time had passed in slow motion until. They had encouraged each other while dreading for the phone to ring, but no one had slept that night. When 'Peter' finally called Amelia to tell her the examination results, Jason had had a hard time hiding his shivering hands from his brothers.

Luckily, a large sum of monetary compensation convinced Amelia to start with the drug intake at once, and when Jason drove her to the hospital that very evening, he didn't have to act like a nervous wreck at all. Tim played the bored nurse well as he took her information, Barbara's voice sounded calm when she called for Amelia through the hospital intercom system, and the glimpse of 'Dr Pennyworth' he got through the door was priceless.

They all played their roles well, but barely managed to hold it together once Amelia was out of sight. The second the door closed behind her, Tim and Jason dashed through the hallways and raced back to the Batwing, where Damian was already waiting anxiously.

"It's pointless," Tim spoke up suddenly, pulling Jason out of his reveries.

The teen was hunched over his laptop and had been typing furiously for the last couple of hours. With Damian meditating and the Batwing running on autopilot, there hadn't been anything left for Jason to do but stare at the phone, dreading the moment it would ring again.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing." Tim drew a hand over his eyes, "He's not on Facebook, Twitter or MySpace. There's nothing about him but those hospital files."

Jason nodded grimly. They needed a plan to convince Traian Antonescu, the second potential donor, to undergo the bone marrow harvesting. There wasn't any more time to lose, and setting him up on the same drug as Amelia would take too long. But Antonescu was like a phantom – they knew his name and his serotype, but nothing else.

The information in his hospital files was vague; dates of his admissions and departures, but not much else. After the vast data stream they managed to gather about Amelia, they had nothing on Antonescu. Tim suggested Romania's underdeveloped medical system was responsible for the missing data, but every other track they tried to trace down ended up worthless as well. For all they knew he didn't even have Internet access, and had left no fingerprints in the system. Oracle had hacked into the registration office of Bucharest and dug up an address; it was ten years old, and they could only hope Antonescu hadn't moved since then.

"So how will we proceed?" Damian piped up, giving up the meditation that had probably been pointless from the beginning. The boy was as restless and anxious as Tim and Jason were.

"I don't know," Tim admitted.

"We have about 10 hours to come up with something."

"Does he even speak English?"

"I don't know."

Jason could see a vein twitching on Damian's forehead, the telltale sign of another annoying argument, but before he could open his mouth, the mobile phone next to Tim started to ring. Bruce was calling.

Jason froze, but Tim grabbed the device at once. "Bruce?" he breathed into the receiver, and nodded solemnly at his brothers when the answer came.

Damian and Jason moved closer, both dying to hear the news and afraid at the same time. Tim was listening closely, and suddenly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

"But he's fine now?" he asked, not opening his eyes again. Jason and Damian both held their breaths.

"Yes.. yeah.. no, Alfred hasn't called us yet.. Bruce, wait! _Is he fine now?_"

He listened for a few seconds and then mumbled a sullen "wait", before dropping the hand with the receiver and turning towards his brothers. "They had to do the cardioversion, but the arrhythmia keeps coming and going."

"It's worsening?" Damian asked hesitatingly, and Tim nodded.

A noise coming from the returned Tim's attention to the line and Damian left his two brothers wordlessly, disappearing into the small cockpit. Jason had half a mind to call after him, but what could he say? 'Don't worry?' Ridiculous. Dick's body was shutting down rapidly, and no words could alleviate heart failure. For the first time since his brother got sick, Jason wondered if surviving was really the best option. Right now, he couldn't picture Nightwing running and jumping from rooftops without hearing the irregular beeping of an EKG.

"Jay?" Tim called him and, to Jason's surprise, handed him the receiver. "He wants to talk to you."

"To me?" So far, Jason had avoided being the one to call or answer the phone, and Bruce didn't seem to have a problem with that attitude. What could he want from _him_ that Tim or Alfred couldn't tell him?

"Hello?" he voiced into the receiver after Tim had shrugged and left with a sullen expression on his face.

"_Jason,"_ the answer came; a statement, nothing more. Jason could feel his eye twitching.

"What?"

"_...What did it feel like?"_

"What did _what_ feel like?"

"_Dying."_

In the matter of seconds, Jason could feel his heartbeat stop – could smell the mixture of moist wood and earth and the feeling of scraping fingernails over metal and stone. It was cold, freezing, but the shirt he was wearing still clung to his body, sticky with sweat. _You're not down there, you got out. You're not down there, you got out. _

_You got out! _Jason broke through the surface, again, and inhaled the fresh, cool air that brought him back,_ again._ He was in a plane. Far, far away from holes in the ground. No grave, no empty warehouse, no Pit. He was on a plane, on a crazy mission to save his sappy big brother, and Bruce had just asked him a question.

He calmed down, got rid of phantom smells and pains, and felt burning disappointment and rage swell up in his chest instead. What dying felt like? Really? _Now_ he wanted to know?_ Now,_ when the _Golden Boy_ was so close to it?Jason managed not to blurt his rage into the receiver, even though it hurt to.

"_Jason?"_ Bruce rasped out impatiently.

Right, he wanted an answer. Jason opened his mouth, but couldn't decide what to say. How it felt? _Terrifying, painful, cold, sad, regretful, appalling, burning, crushing, loud, hopeless, dark, …_

"Lonely," he said instead, barely above a whisper. He wasn't sure where it came from, why he said it, but it was the right thing. He remembered staring at that bomb, watching the numbers count down, his raging emotions, and how it all slowed down to a mumbling background noise when the realization hit: Bruce wasn't coming.

"_But ... he's not alone,"_ Bruce said, ending the silence on the other end of the line.

"No," Jason affirmed tonelessly, suddenly tired beyond comprehension. They exchanged empty phrases he couldn't remember afterwards and then hung up. Jason felt drained, exhausted.

As he walked towards the row of cushioned seats he tried to decipher the feelings in his chest, but there were too many. Bruce had sounded better at the end, as if Jason had reassured him somewhat. He wondered if that was why he had said 'lonely' out of all those things he could have answered. Because if Dick was really dying now, Bruce would make sure that he wasn't alone.

Whatever effect it may have on Bruce, that thought at least made Jason feel better.

########### ########### ###############

Dick wasn't completely unconscious, Bruce knew. Although he didn't manage to open his eyes, he tried again and again; Bruce had observed recurring movement behind his son's eyelids, and sometimes they twitched, in unison with his heart rate; it kept changing, accelerating while Dick tried to return to the land of the living and slowing down when he was pulled back under the blankets of oblivion again.

Throughout, Bruce could feel the hand he was holding trembling slightly. Stronger when he tried to wake up, and again and again it reminded Bruce that it might be better if he didn't. The shaking was due to the pain Dick was in, his doctors had explained, and even though he was unconscious most of the time it never stopped. After waiting and hoping for any movement and signs of life in his son, this was an ironic twist of fate.

Dick was lying on his side, shifted into this position by Mrs Monaghan and Bruce to help him breathe and alleviate any nausea he might feel after the first two sessions of total body irradiation. Bruce didn't understand the need for it at first, but Dick's shallow breathing had indeed deepened after that, though Mrs Monaghan had still insisted on a breathing mask.

The cumbersome irradiation machine next to him had cost a fortune, and loomed ominously over the bed. It was probably better if Dick didn't wake up and see it. Slowly but steadily, the room was lumbered up with medical machinery, and they already had discarded the second bed – that was fine by Bruce, since he didn't allow himself to sleep anyway and it got rid of the temptation of just lying down on the soft mattress.

"Bruce," a soft voice suddenly spoke up, and Bruce whirled around.

Barbara was wheeling into the room, smiling sadly as her gaze shifted from Bruce to the hospital bed.

"Barbara," Bruce greeted, wondering what she was doing here. They hadn't talked since the last time she had visited Dick and dismissed his behaviour towards Jason, and Bruce didn't have the nerves to deal with another lecture.

But she didn't seem to be in the mood for one anyway. Without another word she wheeled next to him without taking her eyes off Dick.

"Is the radiation working?"

"Yes," Bruce answered and ignored the bitter taste that came with it. "He'll be ready for transplantation in about three days." _If he survives that long_. The mixture of chemo, radiation and dialysis was killing his son slowly but did its work. It was a perverse logic, to think that bringing Dick so close to the edge could save him. But the transplantation was his only chance, and destroying his immune system completely the only way.

"It could work out," Barbara whispered, reaching out to touch Dick's cheek.

"Any news from Europe?"

"The boys reached Bucharest a few hours ago, but it's night over there. They're trying to sleep for a few hours and then need to improvise. Antonescu is hard to track down."

"What about the woman in Britain?"

"She took the first dose of drugs and is cooperative. They'll have her transplant in five days."

Bruce squeezed Dick's hand. _Five days, chum._

"I'm sorry, you know?" she said all of sudden. "For snapping at you like that last time. I had no right to say those things to you."

"You had every right," Bruce answered with a faint smile. "I'm glad you're back."

"I wanted to be here sooner, but the boys needed me."

"We'll be needing you a lot more once this is over." Bruce sighed and motioned vaguely at the medical machinery, but the way Babs looked at him made it obvious that she needed clarification. "He'll need you to cope with the aftermath."

Her eyes widened. "You think he won't recover fully?"

"It's unlikely, but he always did the unlikely. Nevertheless it will take him years of training..." And that was an optimistic estimation. Even though Dick had never had a heavy muscle build like Jason or Bruce himself, he had been trained from his earliest childhood by his parents. His acrobatic skills formed out of years of constant practice, repetition and refinement; right now Dick was nothing but skin and bones and would need weeks of physiotherapy just to be able to _walk_ again.

For Dick, movement was such an integral part of his being that Bruce couldn't even imagine the next months, maybe years. He remembered how his son had lost several shades of colour when told that Batgirl would never fly again; Bruce had almost expected him to pass out. Yet it wasn't Nightwing Bruce worried about this time, but Dick's loss of his acrobatic skills. The first thing Dick did after being hurt or injured on missions was to climb up on his trapeze and go through the set of stunts the Flying Graysons' show had consisted of. He wouldn't be able to climb this time for months, and maybe never do the show again. Barbara was the only one who could guide him through such an experience.

"You need to change," Barbara said after a few minutes of silence, and Bruce realized that she was looking him over, a dry smile on her lips.

"Don't have any spare clothes left," he answered hesitatingly.

"And you need to take a shower."

Bruce knew what he looked like; even though he hadn't seen a mirror in a while now, the looks the medical staff was sending him were very unambiguous.

"I can't leave."

"There's a bathroom right here."

"I can't leave him alone."

"I'll stay. Bruce, you need to talk to Lucius. And the media."

He didn't want to hear this, and didn't react. Barbara, of course, couldn't care less.

"Wayne Industries is losing money rapidly. The shareholders worry because they haven't seen you in ages. And reporters keep besieging Wayne Manor; soon they'll get that no one is home. One of them already tried to climb through a window."

That made Bruce pay attention. The last thing he needed right now was some over-ambitious reporter stumbling across the Batcave.

"Clark got him before he could enter," Babs soothed his worries. "He keeps asking for you too. Why don't you go home, take a shower and rest some, and then give an interview to the Daily Planet?"

As it was, the prospect of talking to the Boyscout didn't appeal to Bruce at all. Clark loved Dick dearly and was already pissed that Bruce kept Dick's location hidden from the rest of the superhero community – he really didn't need to suffer through the storm that would come down on him once he explained how exactly he was keeping Dick alive.

"You need to get out of here, Bruce. Call a cab, enter through the Cave and get a few hours of sleep," Barbara insisted. "I can keep Gotham safe with Roy and Wally's help, but you need to run your business."

She was right, and he knew it. After all, the huge amounts of money he spent on keeping Dick alive needed to be earned somehow. He couldn't put off Wayne Industries for as long as Batman could put off Gotham, albeit with the help of two idiotic but dead-loyal superheroes. And Dick was in good hands with Barbara, for sure.

"You're right," he sighed and tried to pry himself away from his son.

Barbara smiled, relieved. "I usually am."

############ ############## #############

They were standing in front of Antonescu's door, waiting for him to open up. When the doorbell had rung for the third time and no one answered, Jason could hear Damian swearing through his comm link.

_'He's not home,' _his little brother stated sullenly, and Tim nodded, disappointed. They were still missing a sound plan, but the day had started fine nonetheless; the address Oracle had provided them with seemed to be the right one; a shabby sign next to the old wooden door said 'Antonescu, T.'. On the way to the house, driving in a rented car, they had come up with a contingency plan, something that would at least help them get a general understanding of Antonescu and the situation: Jason and Tim were to knock at the door and act as appointees of the national bone marrow donation campaign, trying to get a small sample of Traian's blood. While they were trying to find out what Antonescu thought about the topic in general, Damian was supposed to find a way into the house and get a glimpse of who the man was.

Jason reached out and rang the doorbell for the fourth time. Tim was complaining about the waste of time but, really, what else could they do?

_'I'll break into the house,'_ Damian suddenly announced. '_There's a cracked window in the second story and he's obviously not at home.'_

"Shut up! He's coming!"

Tim was right, Jason realized; there were noises coming from inside. Heavy, irregular steps were approaching, making Jason wonder if they had missed any significant time difference between Britain and Romania. It was 11 a.m. right now, not early enough to drag someone out of bed.

His musing was interrupted when the door was thrown open and a very disgruntled, very _drunk_ man stood in front of them.

_Shit._

Antonescu was swaying dangerously as he glared down on them, an unlabeled, half-filled bottle in one hand. Jason opened his mouth first, but closed it again when the smell of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat hit him.

He could hear Tim swallowing drily. "Traian Antonescu?"

The man focused on him with obvious difficulties before grunting out _"Da. Ce este?"_[1]

His words were slurred, as far as Jason could judge. He had heard Dick talking Romanian only a few times, but it had sounded nothing like that. Apparently, something in that stream of syllables had meant 'yes', because the replacement kept going.

"Uh, we... we are Peter and John, from the United States, and..." he trailed off when Antonescu's glare turned darker and darker. "...do you speak English, sir?"

"_Ce spune__ţ__i?"_[2] Antonescu asked, mood very obviously dropping with every second they were spending in front of his door. Jason didn't know what 'Ce spuneţi' meant, but it had answered the question nonetheless - sadly, not in the way they had hoped. Jason tried to remember what languages he could speak that were similar to Romanian, but realized with a shock that he had forgotten most of the Romance languages Bruce had forced him to learn except for Spanish.

"Please tell me you can speak Romanian, Drake," he groaned.

Tim shook his head desperately, while still trying to smile charmingly at the drunk. His thoughts were going a mile per minute; they fucking needed this man, and hell knew how many chances they had left. Why hadn't one of them bothered to learn the mother tongue of their big brother, goddammit?!

_'Fuck that, I'm climbing through that window. Keep him occupied,'_ Damian growled into his comm link, and Jason could hear a car door slam nearby.

As if to prove a point, Antonescu took a deep swing of the bottle he was holding. When he had gulped down half of the contents, he spat something unintelligible into each of their directions and pointed a warning finger at them, more or less managing to meet his targets.

Smiling stiffly, Tim pulled out one of the fake information brochures they had printed in Norwich. He stepped closer to Antonescu and unfolded the paper to try to explain what they wanted. But the Romanian didn't seem to appreciate someone stepping into his personal space, and pushed the teenager away.

"_Car__ă__-te!"_[3] Antonescu hissed and tried to slam the door shut again, but Jason reacted fast and caught the door. With a deep, angry growl the man turned to face him and started to spew out wild and loud streams of words that Jason was pretty sure were insults. He turned to Tim without letting the fuming man out of his sight.

"Now would be a good time for a plan, Replacement."

"_Du te dracu, muist!"_[4]

_'I'm in.' –_Antonescu's cursing almost drowned out Damian's voice.

"I don't know, I can't think of anything in Portuguese right now!?"

"Portuguese?!"

"_Porcule!"_ [4]

"Dick said it sounded almost like Romanian!"

_'What are you two buffoons doing?!'_

The steady stream of curses that came out of Antonescu's mouth was cut off abruptly when Drake suddenly dashed forward, dove under the Romanian's arms and appeared behind him again, slamming the side of his hand into the fleshy part of his victim's neck. Immediately, Antonescu's eyes rolled back and he collapsed into a blissfully silent heap at their feet.

Faster than Jason could process _what the hell just happened_, Tim had already grabbed the Romanian's arms and dragged him inside. A few seconds later, Jason's brain caught up with the situation.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" he yelled at the spot where Tim and his prey had just disappeared, stomping after him.

"That was self-defense," Tim answered soberly, wiping off a rundown table in the middle of the living room and throwing down several documents, food leftovers and whatnot.

Jason's thread of patience had gone down in a fiery explosion. "Self-defense?!" he found himself shouting.

"He threatened me."

"You don't speak a word of Romanian!"

"I remembered some."

Tim was dead calm. Jason dropped the arms he had been flailing around wildly and kept on staring at the teen. Antonescu was lying on the floor, dead to the world. Suddenly, Damian was jumping down the stairs from the second story and almost doubled over when he saw the body.

"What the hell are you imbeciles doing?!"

"Damian," Tim spoke up, voice firm. "There's a white bag in the trunk of our car. Bring it to me. Jason, help me with him."

After a second of hesitation, Jason nodded towards Damian and they both got moving. The boy disappeared through the door, while Jason and Tim crouched down and grabbed Antonescu's body.

"Onto the table, face down," Tim ordered, and with a lot of groaning and cursing they managed to maneuver the man into the desired position.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Jason panted out, eyeing Tim carefully. The teen moved about completely unfazed, pushing the unconscious body on the table around until he was satisfied and then going to the sink to wash his hands.

"I'm not going to lose my brother just because I didn't think about unregistered donors earlier," he growled darkly, scrubbing at his hands. By then, Damian had reappeared with a white bag in his hands, staring at the scene in front of him in shock.

It took Jason two seconds to recognize the bag with the red cross on its front, two seconds in which the replacement had already grabbed it and placed it next to the unmoving body. Before they left Norwich, Tim and Alfred had raided the English hospital for bone marrow harvesting material, just in case the Romanian hospitals weren't equipped sufficiently.

"Oh, no," broke out of Jason. "No, no, no. Drake, no."

Tim climbed on the table and swung his legs over Antonescu's, seating himself on the older man's thighs. By now Damian had understood what he was planning to do and turned white. Tim pulled the man's shirt up and pushed the loose trousers down a bit.

"Jason, you'll need to hold him down."

Freezing, Jason stared at the teen who had just gone mad. "Drake. _Tim,_ think this through."

"Do you have a better idea, Jason?" Tim sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes. "Dick needs his stem cells, and he needs them _now_. It'll be too late when we get Amelia's. Damian, you'll need to hand me the equipment."

To Jason's utter astonishment, the boy moved to Tim's side without further ado. After a few more seconds, Jason ordered his legs to move and walked over the end of the table.

"Hold him down. He shouldn't wake up, but if he does we can't have him thrashing around. Damian, I need a marker and some betadine."

Wordlessly, Jason watched how the replacement poked and prodded the meaty hips. Apparently he found what he had been looking for, for he grabbed the marker Damian had found in the bag and painted a small target cross on the skin.

"..and you are sure that you know what you are doing?" he asked as he leaned over Antonescu's head and applied pressure on his shoulders. _Please don't wake up, please don't wake up._

The replacement hummed in response, busy with applying orange betadine over the area he wanted to spear. "I've watched Leslie doing it a couple of times. She explained stuff. Damian, that blue paper. Cut a hole in the middle."

Jason's expression must have revealed how he felt about 'Leslie explained stuff' without him needing to say anything, because Tim grinned broadly as he covered Antonsescu's hip with the sterile field that left a hole of about ten centimetres around the target cross. Then he grabbed the gloves and pulled them on.

"Alright. Biopsy needle. The one with the blue attachment."

With big eyes Jason and Damian watched how Tim tested the inch-long needle and then inserted it right into the soft flesh without even so much as a flicker of uncertainty. While Jason wondered if he should just throw up now or later, Tim pushed the needle deeper and deeper with fast, rough flicks of the wrist. Gross. _Please don't wake up... _

"Syringe." Tim pulled away the inner needle and handed it to Damian before grabbing the syringe. "Keep it sterile, D. And keep a few more syringes ready."

Amazed, Jason watched how Tim attached the syringe to the needle and started to pull. Slowly but steadily, the big syringe filled with a rich, ruby liquid. It was too dark to be blood, so it had to be the marrow... the thing that would save Dick's life. _Woah_.

"How much do you need?"

"Not so sure," Tim admitted after filling one syringe and exchanging it for a second. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

"And he won't have to suffer from any long-term consequences?" Jason asked, realizing that he might have thought about this sooner.

"No," the teen calmed his worries, never averting his glance from his hands' work. "He'll feel a bit under the weather, nothing more."

With the fourth syringe filled, Tim decided that enough was enough. Armed with a clot of gauze, he pulled the deep needle out of Antonescu's hip with a fast, swift movement that made Jason sick, and then relaxed visibly.

Jason let go of the man's shoulders and tried to hide his trembling hands. When he looked at his brothers, though, he saw that they weren't faring much better. Damian was pale, a greenish tint across his cheeks, and Tim stared down at the unconscious body with wide, shocked eyes.

"Yeah, you just did that," Jason confirmed slyly.

"And what now?" Damian asked, gaze traveling over the medical equipment and the mess Tim had made earlier to make space for his spontaneous emergency room.

"We'll need to keep the marrow cool," Tim answered shakily. The adrenaline was rushing back, apparently. Slowly, he wiped away the orange disinfectant on the Romanian's skin.

"And Antonescu?" Jason poked the man into the side; no response. "We can't just let him lie here across the table."

"Let's move him to the couch," his younger brother suggested. "The things on the table were a mess; I doubt he'll remember their order."

"But he might remember you," Damian piped up while packing syringes and needles back into the hospital bag. "What if he notices the puncture site and remembers you? You waved around a bone marrow donation flyer, after all."

He was right. "Maybe no one will believe him; he has obvious drinking problems."

"We can't take the chance." The old resolve returned to Tim's eyes, and Jason just knew that something freaky would happen right now. "Jason, carry him to the couch."

While Jason heaved the heavy body to the couch, swearing freely, he heard Tim rummaging around in closets and cupboard. He returned after a while, a half-empty vodka bottle in hand.

"Pour that into his mouth," he instructed Jason after pushing Antonescu into a sitting position and tipping his head back, mouth hanging open.

"You wanna drown him with alcohol?"

"No, I wanna get him really drunk, idiot." He was fiddling with the Romanian's throat.

"...what are you doing_ now_?"

"Pushing his voice box to obstruct the airways so he won't drown."

"Dude, how do you know all that disgusting stuff?!"

"Oh jeez, gimme that." Tim grabbed the bottle and poured its content into Antonescu's throat without any hesitation. It looked quite like waterboarding, but the man was gulping the vodka down like a good boy.

A bit useless and bit more overwhelmed, Jason and Damian stood a few feet away from Tim and his 'patient' and watched them wordlessly. When the bottle was almost empty, the teen finally stopped and gently pushed Antonescu to lay on his side, placing the bottle next to his hand.

Damian had already recreated the mess on the table and Jason held the full hospital bag in hands, so there was nothing left for them to do. Tim turned towards them with a small, admittedly creepy smile and rubbed his hands as if saying 'work done'.

"Well then, I think we were very successful today. Let's call Bruce and Alfred!"

He walked past his brothers, humming the theme song of some Sci-Fi movie, leaving Damian and Jason to stare after him.

"That was... intense," Damian said, after a while. "I wouldn't have thought him capable of something like that."

"Yeah... Remind me to be nice to him from now on."

Jason had expected some witty comeback, but Damian only nodded solemnly. Being nice to Tim wasn't exactly something Jason was looking forward to, but on the other hand he didn't want a biopsy needle sticking out of his hip. Or whatever other _stuff_ Leslie had told him about.

################# ############## #########

Almost twelve hours after leaving the hospital for what felt like the first time in ages, Bruce made his way back through the closed-down corridor.

He really did feel better; all worry and fear had been pushed back the second he saw his bed in the Manor, and he had slept like a log for seven hours. After showering and shaving, he had called Clark for a phone interview, strictly refusing a personal meeting.

Lucius was relieved when he called, asking politely about Dick but anxious to get to business. A few emails and short skype conferences later had to be enough to calm down his shareholders, though, and Bruce hurried back to Gotham General.

Even though he knew that Barbara and his staff would have called him the second anything went wrong, he was nervous upon return. Mr Hutchington was calling him before he could open the door to Dick's room, jogging towards him.

"Mr Wayne, we'll need to talk about further proceedings."

"Just a second," Bruce said and peeked through the door, checking to see that everything was all right.

The first thing he saw was Babs' empty wheelchair, and immediately worry shot up his spine. Then he found the bright red mop of hair on the hospital bed, spreading over Dick's chest. Barbara had pulled herself out of her chair at some point and somehow climbed over her unconscious friend, lying down next to him. They were sleeping tightly, she snuggled against him and Dick without a breathing mask, but with a steady, regular beeping in the background.

Bruce allowed himself a small smile at the cuteness in front of him. The last time he had seen the two of them like that had been about seven years ago, back when they had been head over heels in love with each other. For some reason it had never worked out between them, and Bruce had never been able to make sense out of it. He knew, though, that Barbara always managed to calm Dick down, just like now. She really needed to stick around when they got Dick out of this goddamn hospital...

The nurse behind him coughed softly, and Bruce closed the door to leave them to their much-needed rest. Mr Hutchington was holding up Dick's file, page turned to a colorful chart.

"What is it?"

"Richard is reacting very well to the radiation," the nurse explained, "we will have to move him to isolation after the next session."

Bruce nodded, happy that the treatment was working but dreading what had to be done to ensure further proceedings.

"Very well. Please prepare the hospital admission." Officially, Dick was at home, taking palliative care there. But now that the radiation therapy was breaking down what was left of his immune system, Dick needed to return to isolation, just like during the early days of his first remission. Since they couldn't just build a proper isolation unit in the restricted time they had, Bruce had been left with finding a way to get Dick into an official one without violating his living will.

Of course, there wasn't such a way, so Bruce had created a new living will, one that stated very clearly that Dick wanted all possible measures to preserve his life. Apart from that, he had forged a conservatorship act that made Bruce his son's guardian again as long as he was incapable of making his own decisions. It would ensure Bruce complete control over the situation. It also ensured that Dick would never talk to him again if he found out.

He needed to prepare the fake transfer from the Manor to the hospital, and then call the boys and Alfred to hurry up. Good thing he was finally rested.

-tbc-

[1] "Da. Ce este?" → 'Yes, what is it?'

[2] "Ce spuneţi?" → 'What are you saying?'

[3] "Cară-te!" → 'Piss off!'

[4] "Du te dracu, muist!", "Porcule" → swear words I will not teach you ;)

####### ########## ########

**For explanations of 'bone marrow harvesting' check chapter 23/12. For 'radiation/total body irradiation' chapter 24.**

############# ########## ######

_Oookay, a couple of issues to address:_

_I hope I didn't paint a too grim picture of Romania. Antonescu's alcoholism was purely inserted for the plot's sake and the underdeveloped medical system is –sadly- fact. Compared to Britain, that is, and Britain (and the rest of West Europe) is well-developed. Bashing Romania doesn't gain me any advantage, since I'm half Romanian myself. I have been there a couple of times as a child and write what I remember. Sadly I don't speak the language, but I know how to swear profoundly. The phrases above should be right, but it's possible that I messed up some special graphic character. Oh, well._

_So I've been thinking about adding some ally for Bruce, mostly thinking about Clark, when it suddenly hit me that I already have a character who's not getting enough screen time: Babs! So here we go, have some pointless fluff. Dick deserved some._

_And most importantly, special thanks to the awesome Xenitha for helping me out with all that legal stuff. I think I'd still be asleep if it weren't for you!_

_Only one chapter and an epilogue left. Wow, I'm excited. Unfortunately I have to study for a very important exam for a few days and I don't know yet if I'll manage to update next week. Sorry if it takes a bit longer._

_Love, pekuxumi_

_P.S.: Don't mess with Tim._


	28. Chapter 26

_Medical termini will be explained at the end of the chapter._

LIFELINES

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

After stopping to pick up Alfred in Norwich, the flight back to America was filled with silence and anxiety.

The tension between Tim and Damian was palpable and nerve-wracking; although they didn't argue anymore, the two were far from getting along with each other. After Tim's spontaneous bone marrow harvesting Damian kept eyeing him suspiciously, and the steady surveillance was freaking Tim out. They walked around each other on eggshells, snapped at each other but didn't explode in fiery arguments anymore – Damian usually had been the one to take things too far, and now he stepped back every time. At first Jason had been glad about the silence, but seven hours of miserable air travel later he wished they would just scream bloody murder at each other.

The thing was, their relationship was changing. They couldn't see it yet, but it was crystal clear to Jason who was watching the everything unfold. The glances Damian shot Tim weren't suspicious in the regard that he expected an attack or like Tim believed; Damian was trying to reassess what he thought he knew about his brother. A simple truth had occurred to the boy: if they managed to save Dick, they had to thank Tim for it. Without him, Dick would very likely be dead right now, killed by some whacked-out poisening plot they wouldn't have had any clue of.

Tim on the other hand had to swallow a different bitter pill: Damian wasn't the child of the devil he had kept telling himself. The episode with Amelia had made it obvious. When Damian had followed his orders during the bone marrow harvesting in Romania there were no doubts anymore: there was more of a child in him than anyone had seen before, except Dick. And Damian loved Dick for that. He was terrified about the idea of losing him, so much that he consented to crying like the little child he so vehemently refused to be; so much that he followed the orders of the person he despised the most. Hell, Damian had problems taking orders from _Batman_.

Jason knew Talia. He knew Bruce. When he had heard about their child, he knew immediately what the boy would be like: proud. Pride was what kept the boy going, what mended the cracks. And, _damn_, he was an actor. 'Thomas' had presented them with another little brother, and now it was up to Tim and Jason to wonder how much of an act Damian's usual behaviour was. It wasn't as easy to snap at a frightened boy as at an arrogant brat. The annoying assassin was part of the true personage for sure (no one could act _that well_), but now the balance had changed towards the little brother Dick had adored from the very beginning.

It made Jason sick to realize that Dick, _of course_, had seen this ambivalence immediately. Had been right from the very beginning; and only now did Jason understand why the eldest bird had put up with the constant criticism and the painful rejections. He wondered if Damian regretted those words and actions just like Jason regretted his.

Jason sighed and wrapped his arms around his knees. His head was throbbing; all this waiting and pondering was seriously annoying, and his thoughts kept going in circles like a goldfish in a fishbowl. He took another glance at his brothers even though he knew what he would see: Tim was lying on a row of seats, trying to catch some hours of sleep but failing, while Damian was sitting on the opposite side of the plane, book in hand but shooting glances at his elder brother.

Jason wondered if they would simply fall back into their old roles as soon as things quieted down. It was so_ easy _to fall back. Or would they just arrive at the wrong conclusions? But how could _Jason _judge any conclusions, after the events of the last few months had proven again and again how wrong he himself had been. And really, why the hell did he even bother with the babybirds? He had his own problems to solve, preferably before they returned to Gotham. It was not like they were wrecking their minds over _him_, anyway.

Jason tried to crush the bitter feeling that arouse with that knowledge. After all, he himself had made sure that his family ties were severed as thoroughly as possible and couldn't really blame the birds for disliking him. He wasn't a fool; he knew what they must have thought when Dick told them he was taking care of him. _'You're really the last person I'd call if I was worried.'*_ – Oracle's words still rang in his ears. Barbara was there during his Robin days. When he still believed in doing the right thing. If she thought of him like that, what did the babybirds see in him? He hadn't cared one bit about them for years, but then the freaking Golden Boy had changed the whole game with his sick plots and the scary influence he held over them all.

And the worst thing? Goldie had been right, _again. _With everything. All those attempts to convince Jason to come back, to reconcile him with Bruce, had been honest. No lies or traps or taunts, and all it had taken for Jason to understand was a lethal illness (by a mad scientist with a frozen wife, but Jason wasn't even going to start with that).

With a growl Jason realized that he had just completed another round in his fishbowl when Alfred caught his attention with a light cough. The butler looked exhausted, older, even though he should be happy and relieved. Somehow the fact 'we're gonna save Dick' had not lifted their spirits, but opened another, just as equally scary perspective called 'the future' which was filled with slow recovery and heart failure, kidney damage and guilt. Somehow reality had found a way to fuck with them, Jason thought before Alfred handed him a phone.

"I think it's time," he whispered. Jason was confused at first, but a quick glance told him that Tim and Damian had actually fallen asleep, or faked sleep, whatever. Jason was glad that he was spared the audience for this ridiculous act he was going to give. He had to call Amelia and tell her his 'wife' had died that night; that they wouldn't need her marrow anymore.

They had debated all the way from Romania to Britain if they shouldn't let Alfred stay with Amelia until he got her marrow too. It would only take three more days, enough for them to deliver Antonescu's marrow to Gotham and return, get a second donation in case Antonescu's wouldn't work. At some point, though, Tim had sighed and explained that Dick simply wouldn't survive a mismatch. Either he died of Graft vs. Host, a disease he didn't have the strength to fight anymore, or he wouldn't survive the wait for another donation. Dick was too weak to endure a longer period of time without an immune system, and Bruce had reaffirmed earlier that they had made progress on that part. In a few hours, Dick's immune system, as shitty as it had worked earlier, would be blown into pieces along with his bone marrow and he would be moved into isolation.

Jason had to smirk at the irony. How awesome their timing had worked out. They hadn't had the heart to leave Alfred alone in Great Britain. The two hour detour they needed to pick him up wouldn't matter, Tim insisted, and somehow Tim had apparently become the mission leader, since Damian and Jason had consented immediately.

It had been darkest night when they landed at the rendezvous spot to pick up Alf, and the old man had insisted that 'Peter' called Amelia in a few hours. She deserved something better than a vanishing into thin air, Jason had to agree, but he still didn't look forward to actually doing the call. He had considered letting 'Thomas' do it, but really, what father would let his kids call foreign people to tell them his mom had died?

As Jason dialed, he wondered why the hell he worried about what other people thought of his parenting skills. He really was going sappy; he needed to stay away from Dick for a while as soon as this was over...

"_Hello?"_ a sleepy voice answered after the third ring. Jason glared at Alfred; the old butler tended to forget that not everyone liked to get up at six AM.

"Amelia?" he asked quietly, sniffling once. "It's Peter. Peter Cox." ..._That damn name._

"_Peter?"_ Amelia was wide awake immediately. _"What happened? Is she alright?"_

_Right_, Jason remembered, _she's been through all of that already._ "I'm calling.. to.." Jason took an audible deep breath and then went for 'shocked/detached'. "She died a few hours ago, Amelia."

"_Oh... oh my. I'm so sorry, Pe-"_

"And I wanted to let you know that we are very grateful for you're commitment." Jason tried to sound like he had rehearsed those lines. They came automatically, though. They all were adept liars, but for once Jason was telling the truth. He _was_ grateful.

Amelia tried to get a few lines in between the sermon he was rattling down. _"Peter, listen."_

"Dr. Pennyworth will call you this afternoon about the drug you've been taking. As far as I know you can simply drop it without any consequences."

"How is Thomas?"

Jason gulped and glanced at Damian. "I don't know. I think he tries to act tough."

"_And how are you?"_

"I'm... I'm trying to hold it together."

"_How well is that working?"_ Jason would have been pissed at the ironic tone if anyone but her would ask him that. But she knew only too well what was going on, and somehow the lines between truth and lie were blurring.

"What else can I do, huh?" She was preparing to say something, but Jason cut her of. "Thomas just woke up. Listen, I'll call you again."

He cut the connection abruptly and handed the phone back to Alfred, who was looking at him thoughtfully. No, not at him – right through him.

"Alf? You're doing ok?"

Alfred snapped out of his train of thought and smiled apologetically. "Oh yes, quite well. I'm just tired."

Yeah, sure. How often had he heard that onefrom Dick? "What were you thinking about?"

"About how you've grown up."

Jason flinched in surprise and confusion. Where the hell did _that_ come from?! "Huh?" he said intelligently.

Alfred smiled a sly smile, eyes flashing with his trademark wit. "You need to shave now. When you were living with us, you used to make me buy you shaving foam even though you _clearly_ didn't need it."

Jason felt the blush creeping over his face. He couldn't believe that Alfred knew about that. He even cut himself sometimes to make it look real, dammit. He wondered if Bruce and Dick knew, too.

Alfred was chuckling slightly at the memory. Even though it was good to see him in better spirits, Jason didn't like it one bit that he was laughing at his expense.

"Don't you have more important things to think about?" He blurted out, brash and defensive.

"Like what?"

"About Dick? Like always?"

The smile disappeared from Alfred's face immediately. "Then again, perhaps you didn't grow up that much."

"What's that suppose to mean?" For once there really were good reasons to concentrate on his brother.

"Richard's situation may be complicated, but it's not more important than yours. It never was, Jason."

"Tch, I don't need you to worry about my 'situation'," Jason growled and crossed his arms like a five-year-old. He didn't like where this conversation was going; he didn't need an Alfred-lecture now. Crap, and there wasn't anywhere he could escape to.

"But I do. I always did."

Jason looked up sharply, not sure if he was feeling angry or guilty. If it were Bruce or Dick or Barbara in front of him he would snap and shout and go into his aggressive-defensive mode he learned on the streets. But this was _Alfred_, and he couldn't argue with Alfred. Never could. Especially not because Alfred had always been blameless, always been the one person he never managed to hate. He had tried to, but all he achieved was to hate the blind loyalty towards Bruce. .. oh yes, he really hated _that._

"Then stop worrying," he said half-heartedly, prying his eyes away.

"What are you going to do once we return to Gotham?"

Good question. He didn't know. Jason shrugged with his shoulders. "Make sure Dickiebird survives the procedure, I guess."

"And after that?" Alfred was sounding seriously concerned now, and Jason couldn't comprehend what he was worrying about so much.

"What does it matter? He'll recover and things will go back to normal." Whatever 'normal' was.

A long, heavy sigh escaped Alfred's lips, and he suddenly looked like an old man again. "I worry about that, too," he whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think things will be very 'normal' again, Jason." Alfred was shaking his head slowly, sadly. "This no gunshot or concussion. There will be consequences, physical and psychological."

Jason swallowed drily. He had also considered this, but hearing it out of Alfred's mouth made it more real than ever before. If the Golden Boy survived, another fight would start.

"He'll find out that Bruce ignored his will. What if the heart damage is permanent? And Freeze. What am I suppose to tell him about the benzene? We were hardly able to accept that he just got cancer like every other patient; how will he accept that he has been poisoned just because he's the son of an affluent man?"

Jason stared at Alfred in shock. Never before had he seen him so unsure; Alfred always knew what to do. "But you won't be alone with that task," he answered doubtfully. "You'll have Tim and Bruce to help-"

Alfred smirked humourlessly and Jason cut himself off. Never would a bad word about Bruce come across Alfred's lips, but that smirk said everything. A disturbing realization bubbled up in Jason's chest – maybe Alfred wasn't all that blinded by loyalty after all? Could it be that Alfred saw Bruce's mistakes as clearly as Jason could? That smirk...

"And the Manor, Jason," Alfred suddenly went on, sharing his sorrows. "It's no place for recovery. His immune system won't work properly for ages; one fight with Poison Ivy and we'd have to isolate him again. But even without crime fighting there are enough dangers – Master Damian and Master Timothy are surrounded by germs and viruses everyday in school..."

He sat down heavily and sighed deeply, and, as if to confirm Jason's thoughts, said, "I'm too old for this."

"Can't we just concentrate on keeping him alive and then worry about the rest?" The second he pronounced the last word Jason realized that he was echoing Bruce almost exactly. Oh sweet Jesus.

Alfred glared at him appropriately. "This is too important."

He was right; he was always right. Beaten, Jason slumped next to him across two seats, wracking his brain for some solution. They had the marrow, they had the life-prolonging measures. Why the hell couldn't things look good for a change?

"I'm too old for this," Alfred repeated again, tired. Jason glanced at him from the corner of his eye and hated,_ hated_, how defeated he looked.

"I'm not," he said therefore.

Alfred's tiredness seemed to lift a bit, when the mischievous, small smile returned. Jason didn't say anything else, didn't know what else to say, but there was no need for. Alfred had gotten the message, and Jason felt better after he said it.

He'd stick around for a while, and see how things would be going. For Alfred's sake, because Alfred really could use some help after everything he'd done for them all. Against popular belief Jason had missed the 'home' and the 'family' he had left behind. Not Bruce or the big brother who had never truly been there, but his surrogate grandfather. Drinking tea with Alfred, driving him mad with failed attempts at lemon cake, telling him about their nocturnal adventures. Apparently, Alfred had missed him too, and that knowledge burned. The old man didn't deserve that, and maybe now Jason had a chance to mend the cracks in their relationship.

He still didn't know what to do about Bruce. And truth be told, he didn't want to return to the Manor, but maybe they could meet halfway. And Dickiebird... he still needed his answers. And to strangle him to hell and back for playing him with the drug deals and the graves.

########## ############### #############

_three days later_

They were standing in front of the windowpane that separated the isolation unit in visitor and patient areas. Even though they were strictly forbidden to enter through the hermetic double door system into the patient's rooms, they were wearing gloves and covered their mouths with white masks. The danger of bringing a germ – one single, harmless germ – into Dick's vicinity was too big. It would still take about two to three weeks until the stem cells would form an immune system with the strength of a newborn's.

Jason ignored the possibility that they might never do that, that Dick was still in imminent danger of this damn illness called Graft vs Host. He had also chosen to ignore the possibility of heart failure or multiple organ failure and whatever bullshit could still happen. This shit would work, because they had put so much effort into making it work, and Dick was a way too stubborn idiot to die anyway.

They all were stubborn idiots, actually, and if Dick had the insolence of giving up now they would drag him back merciless. Tim could always perform a spontaneous brain transplantation on the spot, or Bruce would bribe God himself while Damian cried. So Dick better had to spare them the trouble and reinitiate his new immune system, kick the leukemia in the butt and return to being his usual, hyperactive self.

The lack of movement was seriously freaking him out. When Jason had stepped into the isolation unit for the first time, he almost hadn't recognized his brother. He was paler than ever, since no bone marrow was producing new blood cells yet and the blood transfusions had to be administered carefully, not to disturb the new stem cells on their way to their designated places. The circles under his eyes proved that this was a strenuous procedure for Dick's body, even though he hadn't woken up in at least a week or so, and the lines of his mouth that weren't covered by the attached breathing tube were red with inflammation.

If it weren't for the mechanical lifting and lowering of his chest, Dick looked like a corpse. Or like the coma patient that he was. Only one hour prior to his marrow transfusion, when Bruce had just made some awkward try to start a conversation with Jason, a doctor had appeared and suggested that Dick should lapse into artificial coma.

Jason hadn't liked the sound of it one bit, still didn't, but there were good reasons to do so: the danger of breathing in contaminated air was diminished to a negligible variable and the administration of drugs was easier to handle if the docs had steady numbers instead of the irregular jeopardy Dick's heart and blood pressure presented them. No one said, of course, that Dick's body was so likely to shut down that life-support was a precautionary measure, just like the sanitarily cleaned defibrillator in Dick's isolation room was. They didn't have to say it because they all knew. With a defeated nod, Bruce had consented.

The defibrillator conjured up unpleasant memories – the medical staff of the isolation unit had just used them on Dick when his brothers and Alfred burst through the door with the bags of marrow in their hands. Even though it obviously hadn't been a resuscitation –Dick's irregular heartbeat was loudly echoing through the room and the staff was way too calm– the sight hadn't been a pretty one. Damian had walked right out of the door after the first shocked seconds, and Tim had shoved the marrow into Jason's arms and followed the Devil Spawn. Alfred was at Bruce's side the moment he spotted him and Jason was left with handing the transplant to a nurse without knowing if there was anything he had to say about it.

She knew what to do though; Bruce had probably warned the hospital staff that the donation wasn't going to go the usual way. They pepped up the marrow with all kinds of medications and stuff, put Dick into artificial coma and not 24 hours later, they watched as the doc walked into the room in full hygienic gear and hooked their brother up to a new bag full of a rich, ruby fluid. The IV-line was red two seconds later and the doc gone.

The whole thing had been ridiculously anti-climatic. Jason knew he should be glad about that, but watching how the fluid in the bag decreased over the next hours while Dick didn't so much as move one eyelid was a little bit disappointing. The disappointment turned into sheer horror when Tim explained that the new cells needed at least 18 days until they formed a new marrow. There was no way to find out if the donation had worked until then and Dick could develop Graft vs Host any second.

When nothing had happened for the first night except for the rise and fall of Dick's chest, Jason decided the worst was over. His brother's weakened state wouldn't have made it through a fight for more than a few minutes if anything had gone wrong, and now that there wasn't any chemo or dialysis or radiation to weaken him, Dick's body was finally able to recover. Things were probably a lot more complicated than that, but Jason chose to believe it anyway.

Right now, they were waiting for the doctor with the first blood samples. They couldn't say anything about the success of the transplant, but about the state Dick's other organs were in. The coma cocktail and the heavy immune suppressive drugs probably did a good number on his already damaged kidneys.

So when the doctor stepped in, they were still pretty tense and anxious. He smiled at them through the mask and held up a piece of paper with a lot of numbers and terms Jason had never heard of.

"Bottom line," he began, and they all held their breaths, "things look good. His kidney and liver function readings are as well as can be expected, and his heart has been stable so far. We can't say yet if the stem cells are doing their work, but on the other hand there isn't any trace of Graft vs. Host so far."

It was good news, but the doc send them a hard glance, as if to remind them that they still had a long way to go.

"What's your prognosis?" Bruce asked, calm and collected. "Will there be any long-term damage?"

The doctor took a long, thoughtful look at the piece of paper. "Well, his kidneys seem to be fine. We probably should attach him to a dialysis a couple of times to help them get rid of the coma mixture when he's out of here." 'Here' meant the isolation unit, and the whole oncology department. "We'll need to be very careful with infections after the new immune system starts working. He won't recover fast, I fear. And there's still the risk of relapse, even though it's very slim."

Bruce nodded, he had expected as much. The doctor left soon after and Jason followed, needing to get out into the fresh air and dying for a smoke.

"Jason!" a voice called behind him and he saw that Bruce was following him. Throwing his gloves and the mask into a bin, Jason waited warily for the older man to catch up.

They hadn't talked much til now, with Bruce completely preoccupied with Dick's transplantation and them sleeping in shifts. After they had arrived and gave the bone marrow to the medical staff, all the batboys, Alfred included, weren't able to fight the sleep-deprivation any longer.

Jason had been fine with not talking because he hadn't come to any conclusion other than that it was fucking Bruce's turn to do something. He had proved now that he cared, that he didn't want to kill Tim anymore, that he wasn't a mindless killing machine. Now it was up to Bruce, and throwing him the keys to a vehicle was totally not enough. From the stern look Bruce gave him as he marched up to him, they were going to talk this down _now._

"'sup?" he asked nonchalantly after Bruce had caught up and they walked towards the hospital park side by side. They didn't face each other, which was definitely preferred by both of them.

"When will you go back to being Red Hood?" Bruce asked, straight to the point as always.

"In a hurry to get rid of me, are we?" Really, he could at least _try._ Moodily, Jason grabbed a cigarette from his pack and lighted it as soon they passed the threshold. One exhalation later Bruce had snatched the cigarette from his hands and crushed it under his shoes. "_Hey?!_"

"You need to stop this."

Jason rolled his eyes. "I thought you had given up on that when I was sixteen."

"You'll get cancer."

_Really, Bruce? _"Why? Do you have any other frozen wives you didn't tell us about?"

Bruce growled down on him, obviously not amused. "That's not funny. I'm not going through that again."

"Yeah, I always figured you'd just let me die."

"_Jason!"_

_Okay,_ Jason admitted that he might have gotten a bit too far with the last one. "Sorry," he mumbled therefore, much to his and Bruce's surprise.

It satisfied Bruce though, and with wary eyes the older man turned to Jason. "Blüdhaven is a mess."

"Always has been." Damn, Jason wanted a cigarette now. He hadn't smoked much; since they arrived in the States he had spend too much time in the hospital. And he didn't like that Bruce was starting to talk about the goddamn mission already, as if Dick was up and somersaulting again.

"It's worse since Nightwing left. Barbara considered sending Wallace, but I don't think he'd be up to it."

Jason raised a brow, waiting for the punch line. "So what?"

"You should do it."

Bruce's face was firm and serious, no emotion betraying his act like they were destroying Jason's. He could almost feel his eyes bulging out of their sockets.

"As _Nightwing_?" he asked, clarifying. Because Bruce surely hadn't just asked him to take up the Golden Boy's mantle to fulfill their crusade for justice.

"Yes, as Nightwing. You played that part before."

Yes, because he couldn't say no to a sick person. And because it pissed off the rest of the Batfamily. It had been fun while it had lasted, but honestly Jason hadn't thought about it again since the fake drug deal moved to Gotham and into Red Hood's territory.

"I... need to think about it," he said overwhelmed, searching for a witty, mean comment but finding none. "I don't want to leave Gotham right now." _Sappy idiot._

"I'll need to go back to patrolling once Dick is more stable," Bruce offered, though the discomfort was plainly visible. "We can do shifts with Red Robin and Robin."

"I need to think about it," Jason simply repeated.

Bruce nodded, murmured a "keep me updated" and returned into the building. Jason stared at his back, taken aback and swamped. It was an innocent enough question, but it's implication were a bit more complicated.

Bruce had just reinvited Jason into the family, in his own, mission-related and emotionally detached way. He would never just ask Jason to come back or hug him or whatever Dick would do, he would make it about the only thing he felt competent in. Gotham. The mission.

A small voice in Jason's brain piped up and told him it was a trap. A win-win situation for Batman, who wouldn't need to worry about Blüdhaven too much and would get rid of the Red Hood in Gotham at the same time.

But he could ask Alfred to manufacture a second costume and manage to stay close to the old man thus. Having only one costume had become a bit disgusting back in Blüdhaven, when Dick wasn't well enough for mending or washing. Oh yeah, and what about all the vigilante stuff in Dick's old flat? It wasn't like they would let Dick move in ever again. Could he keep the awesome ninja stuff? After all it was Nightwing's equipment...

Smirking like an imbecile, Jason pulled another cigarette out of his pocket and lighted it. Maybe he'd stop once Bruce asked him _nicely._

_- to be continued with the epilogue-_

_* this quote goes back to chapter 5._

**medical termini:**

**Graft vs. Host Disease (GvHD)**: If a transplant's tissue type doesn't match well enough with the host's type, there will be a** rejection** _(check chapter 22 for tissue type stuff (HLA, loci, etc))_. There can be a rejection of the **host against the transplant**; this happens if the immune system of the host recognizes the transplant as foreign body. But there can also be a **'reversed rejection' of the transplant (graft) versus the host's body.** This happens most commonly with leukemic patients, since their own immune system is destroyed prior to the transplantation _(check chapter 24 for radiation therapy)_ and can't react. Grafts that contains tissue of the immune system (most often bone marrow or liver tissue) also contain the donor's immune system agents, leukocytes. The donor's leukocytes then recognize the host as foreign body and attack him.

(There is a plus side to GvHD for leukemic patients though, and that's called **Graft vs tumor effect** (which has nothing to do with this story, but I find it fascinating and decided to share :D). Because if the new bone marrow recognizes the host as foreign body, it also recognizes the host's cancerous cells as dangerous, foreign bodies and destroys them. Of course this is no long-time solutions and Graft vs tumor patients need a lot of medical treatment to keep the raging immune system at bay, but it works wonders with chronic leukemias.)

**stem cell transplantation**: after finding a donor and preparing the patient, the transplantation per se is not a very exciting procedure. The marrow is inserted through a regular **IV infusion** and then all participants have to wait. **Engraftment** takes several week during and after which GvHD may break out. To minimize that risk severe **immunosuppressive drugs** have to be administered (for at least six month to come!) that on the other hand increase the risk of lethal infections.

If a new bone marrow forms after a few weeks, the** immune system** is being reinitialized. It's in the state of a newborn's, meaning that all **acquired immunity is lost** and the patient is susceptible again to childhood illnesses such as measles, chicken pox or polio. They can only be vaccinated against those as soon as they're off the immunosuppressive medication.

############## ############## #######

_Ladies and Gentlemen, this was the last proper chapter! It took longer than I expected, and I'm really sorry. I totally underestimated how much I needed to study for my exams and wasn't able to write in between study sessions like I had planned to do. And also I didn't really have a clue as to what to write into this chapter. My plot document only read 'return to G.; transplantation', and damn, a stem cell transplantation isn't very exciting. _

_So it turned out to be a chapter of introspection for Jason, which is okay because that needed to be done as well. I loved the interaction with Alfred; showing that Alf too doesn't have the answers to everything and worries about his boys. _

_Oh, and Bruce. I really, really want to grab Jason and Bruce and lock them into a room until they finally talk with each other. But that will never happen. Jason will never be able to get rid of his 'fuck-you-knee reflex' completely and Bruce will never be able to communicate properly. But maybe they'll manage to get along now? _

_As for Tim and Damian... just as Bruce and Jason, Damian and Tim will never end up as the brothers Dick wishes they would. At least not in my head. What I aimed for in this story wasn't friendship or brotherly love, but _respect_. Every close relationship needs mutual respect, and those two had basically none for each other. I changed that with showing Damian that Tim is smart, determined and has a very frightening similarity to Batman if he wants to. Damian, on the other hand, proved to Tim that there is more than the arrogant brat, that Damian is ready to set aside his pride and arrogance to reveal a 10 year old boy that indeed worries and loves. Respecting each other is the first step towards any other relationship, be it friendship or just a working partnership. _

_I see potential for Jason and Tim, though. I think their problems mainly resulted of Jason's hatred, and I think they have come to some sort of truce. Without Tim they wouldn't have been able to save Dick, and without Jason, Tim wouldn't have been able to complete his plan adequately. Tim proved to Jason that he's more than just some replacement and Jason proved to Tim that he's more than just a gun-flailing zombie._

_I'm rambling :D. I don't want this to end. Just a short epilogue left! If you have any question left you want me to answer, you'll need to ask them now. _

_Love, pekuxumi_


	29. epilogue

_Medical termini will be explained at the end, followed by a lot of teary-eyed rambling ;)_

LIFELINES

EPILOGUE

_-four weeks later-_

Sighing, Bruce dropped the 'Blüdhaven's Gazette' and rolled his eyes at the ceiling of the hospital room. _Patience_, he told himself, imagining Alfred's voice, _and faith_._ But definitely more patience._

A deep breath from the figure on the hospital bed joined Bruce's musing, as if to confirm his thoughts. Immediately Bruce's attention turned to his son, checking all vital signs and observing the medical machinery that was still attached to him.

But his blood pressure was as it should be and his heartbeat regular, neither Dick's oxygen level nor his blood sugar had dropped; everything was as fine as it was a few seconds ago. Dick had merely taken a deep breath.

Bruce shook his head at his own anxiety; he really needed to get a grip on himself. Things were finally working out, were looking up, but Bruce couldn't bring himself to trust the situation. Dick was still weak and vulnerable, and Bruce didn't think he'd ever stop worrying as long as his son lay in that bed.

_Patience and faith_, he repeated, smiling a bit.

A week ago, they had moved Dick out of the isolation unit and into a special room at the ICU. The respiratory system had been exchanged for a simple breathing mask three days ago, and Dick's lungs had been holding their own since, though the doctor still insisted on keeping the oxygen flow on maximum; his breathing was still a little bit shallow thanks to all the medication, and a steady oxygen flow limited the risk of infections.

Dick's new bone marrow was working by now, spreading blessed white cells through his body that reestablished his immune system. When they spotted the first healthy leukocyte, the doctor had been grinning so madly that no words had to be exchanged. No cancerous cell had appeared since then, though the level of his white cells rose steadily. A week later Dick was ready to be moved out of the isolation unit with a wonderful note in his hospital file that read 'complete remission'.

Bruce smiled fondly at the memory, but tried to keep in mind that things were not over yet. After the usual procedure a cancer patient was only labeled as 'cured' after five long years of 'long-term remission'. Dick's case was very promising since the cause of his illness had been removed, but cancer was still such an unpredictable disease. Sometimes cancer cells managed to work their way into the host's DNA; sometimes cancerous blood cells managed to sneak into the areas that got protected from radiation, like the central nervous system, and survived, triggering a relapse later.

The thought of relapse made Bruce's chest constrict. He wouldn't allow it. He had beat the odds one time already and he would do it again. Dick would _not _die, and Freeze would _not_ win. Patience, faith, and_ control._ Enough to keep Freeze alive even if he escaped Arkham again, and control enough not to strangle his wayward son along the way.

Bruce glanced back at the newspaper in his lap. Blüdhaven was going crazy for the return of her hero, but the chasm between the vigilantism fans and its opponents had become even wider. Nightwing had always been given broad acceptance in Blüdhaven, but Jason had his own ways, and those were... disputable, to say the least.

Yes, Bruce had been glad when Jason announced two weeks back that he would take up Nightwing's mantle for the time being, and yes, Bruce had been glad when he actually went to Blüdhaven one week later to stop a bio weapon deal. Things were working out; Jason had even consented to wear a tracker and a comm link connecting him to Oracle and the rest of Gotham's heroes. Bruce had been elated... until he found out that Jason didn't yield, he only changed the rules – a comm link for a gun.

When Oracle told Bruce that Nightwing used a gun, he had been furious. But the next day police reports confirmed that no one had been killed, and after a second night full of gun shots the newspapers were full of pictures of criminals that stood in queue in front of the BPD to turn themselves in. When Jason had walked into Dick's hospital room that day, he nonchalantly argued that he didn't kill anyone, just made sure they wouldn't be walking away any time soon. And electric escrima sticks and sharp batarangs could be pretty lethal too if used in a certain manner.

He had been right, Bruce had to agree with grinding teeth. Plus, nobody had been killed, even though the criminals he shot had been rapists and murderers- the Red Hood's usual prey. It was just so... so _Jason_. Always pushing Bruce's boundaries; putting up a fight about _everything_. Well, he was not Dick, as he repeatedly reminded Bruce every time they talked about Nightwing, and Bruce had best to accept that. Especially since Red Robin and Robin both had expressed that they trusted Jason's aim.

Bruce didn't know what exactly had happened in Europe, but he sensed the changing dynamics in his boys. Whatever it was, it had made Tim and Damian change their opinion about Jason, and soon Bruce found himself solely worrying about the former killer. Things changed, and it was high time for Bruce to catch up. Patience and faith, right?

"Seems like you're getting your reunion at last," he grunted into Dick's direction, but didn't get any response. "But I'm sure there will be guns and torn nerves instead of hugs."

Dick was doing well. They had begun to lower the coma medication, taking it off step by step. Dick would be free of it in a few days, but waking up would probably still take some time. That was okay – he had all the time in the world now. There were small signs of life already. He wasn't strong enough yet to wake up, but now and then Dick scratched at the surface of consciousness. Sometimes the muscles of his eyelids twitched, or a hand moved a few inches. Just a couple of minutes ago Bruce had shifted Dick into a lateral position with the help of a nurse, and Dick had made a humming sound that almost sounded like his trademark 'five more minutes'-whine.

As much as that had made Bruce's heart ache, the sight of the red, sore spots on his back had hauled him back to reality. Unmoved, the nurse had applied ointment and explained to him that they couldn't let Dick lie in the same position for a longer period of time any more, else he would develop pressure ulcers. Bruce had to shudder at the thought – a 23 year old and decubiti? It made his thoughts drift towards the not so distant recovery at Wayne Manor that would also imply a lot of sleeping and lying down. Bruce made a mental note to call Alfred later and tell him about that problem. The old man had already begun to prepare the Manor for Dick's recovery and would be mad at Bruce if he had to change his plan at the last minute.

They couldn't risk any decubiti now, when Dick's immune system was still as weak as a newborn's. He hadn't even got the vaccine shots for polio and tetanus yet, wouldn't for at least two more weeks. Dick's room in the ICU was cleaned daily with disinfectants, and all visitors had to wear gloves and masks. Tim and Damian, who usually came right after school, had a bag of clothes in the hospital lockers on the first story and changed out of their school uniforms before coming anywhere near their brother.

In fact, Bruce was awaiting them any minute now. Tim had promised to come after school today so that Bruce could return to Wayne Industries and pick up his work. Life went on, and Wayne Industries needed a boss. Since Dick was doing better, Bruce dared to leave for longer periods of time. Preparing missions for Batman, running Wayne Industries, satisfying the gossiping media once again and still spending most of his time in the hospital – Bruce couldn't imagine what he would do without Tim. Need to reschedule an arrangement? Call Tim. Need to check out a new drug the docs wanted to give Dick? Call Tim. Need someone to get up at 2 AM to clean the streets of Gotham? Call Tim. Though the boy had always been mature and trustworthy, he had surpassed himself over the last few weeks. Dick would be proud when he woke up, and Bruce was determined that he wouldn't be lonely when he did. 'Lonely'.. the word haunted him, so Bruce had made sure someone of the family was always with him, and Wallace or Clark were only a phone call away if any nocturnal emergencies required the presence of all of them.

Bruce wondered if Damian would come along with Tim today. He often did; in fact, the boy spent most of his time with Dick. It was touching to see him caring so much, opening up to simple gestures such as holding his brother's hands or squeezing his shoulder. After a while Bruce had realized that he had never spent so much time in Damian's presence before. In Robin's, yes, but not in his son's. Lucky for him, the whole ordeal seemed to have made Damian realize how little effort he had put in getting to know his family, too, and so the boy had started to ask questions. About Robin at first, then about Dick, and the stories Bruce told him had started to include Timothy, Barbara and Jason as well at some point.

It had been Damian, too, who noticed that Dick's hair was growing back. Bruce had become so accustomed to the sight of his bald son that he had stopped paying attention a while ago – Damian, though, had noticed the darker shades. The doctor had explained that Dick's hair should start to grow back as soon as the chemo and radiation therapies were over, and he was right. Along with his white blood cells Dick's hair had started to come back, and Bruce had every reason to believe that it would grow with all the former speed and unruliness that had made Alfred surrender ever so often.

Most often, hair regrew in curls after chemotherapy, and Dick's wasn't likely to be an exception. He would probably have a fit when he realized – Bruce had to laugh silently when he tried to imagine Dick, staring into a mirror and grabbing his hair incredulously. It would be so... _usual._ Dick going overboard because his hair wouldn't fall 'perfectly' was _routine_. Wonderful, normal, everyday routine.

With everything that lay still ahead of them, they needed a bit of normalcy.

On the bed, Dick moved an arm and tried to turn on his back. Gently, Bruce caught him and shifted him onto his side again. Dick lay still for about two seconds before trying again, completely ignoring Bruce's attempts to be careful.

….Normalcy, yes.

_- the end -_

**medical termini:**

**decubitus (pl.: -i):** or pressure ulcers, decubiti ulcers, bedsores, are injuries underneath the skin of an area over a bony prominence (eg at the tailbone) that appear due to prolonged pressure appliance. A patient who has to lie in bed for a long time in the same position will develop bedsores, because at some point the tissue between bony prominence and bed will suffer an obstruction of the blood flow. Those pressure spots may 'open' if untreated and may result in a very nasty, persistent wound that will keep being infected and slowly dissolves the tissue. Very, very, disgusting stuff. DON'T GOOGLE. Seriously. Don't.

_########## ############## ############# _

_Wow, it's done! :D _

_This story means so much to me, and I want to thank everyone who read, reviewed and/or faved. Each and every word meant so much to me, I don't even know how to express my thanks. I was so anxious when I posted the first chapter, and you were all so kind to me. I've gained so much more confidence in my English – I don't know if you guys can understand this since most of you are native speakers – it's a pleasure to be able to write in a second language AND get praised for it :D. (Seriously, just a week ago a lecturer kept telling my seminar class how awful our English was; that most of us shouldn't even bother to come to take the exam... some of my fellow students actually started to cry, while I was all like 'bitch please. I got 800 reviews.' XD)... but mostly I have to thank Callypse for betaing! You've done an awesome job, and I learned so much about spelling, grammar and punctuation thanks to you! This is the first time ever I understood what a semicolon is for, and I swear I will learn how to use the -ing -form one day :). Without Callypse you all would have had to read stuff like 'Jason slammed the brackets of his car' or 'he motioned to/for/at/wtf?! Bruce'. XD  
_

_And now, to the end. Yes, Dick survives! I know that's not what all of you wanted, but I hope I managed to keep up the suspense. Honest to God – it was planned that way since I began with the prologue... though I did change the plot various times before beginning to write. Dick didn't survive the first four plot writes! He only made it through once I added Mr. Freeze, and I struggled hard to add him. At first, the story was a regular 'guy-gets-cancer' plot, but I needed something more drastic; something that would harden Bruce's resolve and make even pighead Jason see clearly. I also liked the more Batman-style story because, well, it was supposed to be a Batman story and not a 'convertible guy gets convertible disease in convertible setting' story. I did NOT like that the arbitrariness of the cancer disease got corrupted thus, and that's why I struggled long. The harshness about cancer is that it may hit all of us anytime, but with a plotting Mr. Freeze, Dick isn't 'anyone' anymore. So I decided to do it 50:50; it's a poisoning plot, but the characters don't know for most of the time. Dick doesn't know it at all! This was really important to me – they needed to deal with this like normal people would have to._

_Many of you asked for a sequel, and to be completely honest: I don't know! I didn't want to write one and didn't plan one. While writing, I noticed that many things are left unsaid – but I totally underestimated them! Only when I wrote the last 5, 6 chapter did the whole intensity of things left unsaid really hit me – hello? Dick doesn't know he has been poisoned! How will Jason and Bruce's relationship develop? Will Dick ever be able to be Nightwing again? Or do a Quadrouple? What happens if he doesn't? And OMG the conservatorship action! I never expected it to be so much and now I'm really mad at myself because ARRGH SO OBVIOUS! So what now? No idea. I feel the need to add something, but I don't know what. There are a few scenes in my head (mostly about the relationship between Dick, Damian and Bruce) but they're not enough for a whole story, and I will NOT write anything without a fully satisfying story plot. I'm ridiculously proud of Lifelines and I will never write anything connecting to it that doesn't fulfill the standard I think I set in LF. So basically, to all of you wanting a sequel: I'm sorry, I can't promise anything. I see the need, but I haven't planned anything._

_I don't have any plans for another story either, by the way. I'll be very busy for the next weeks (I'll be working with a comic artist for the next two months! :D), so who knows what will happen. For all of those who reviewed Interferences and asked for a sequel: Thank you so so much! You are awesome for liking my gory little whumpage story. I don't have a sequel planned, but I though about writing a few one shots in an 'Interferences Universe' that are (loosely) connected. Because really, fuck continuity! But we'll see. I have ideas about a story about Dick and Damian; and one about Dick and Jason... but nothing is seriously planned. What would you like to see? Give me some ideas! ;D_

_Okay, time to come to the end. I'm rambling! If you have a few seconds to drop me a line, I would kindly ask you to tell me what scene/chapter you liked most. I for my part definitely loved the first half of the story more, because Dick's POV is awesome. I loved every interaction between Jason and Dick, mostly the arguing in chapter 6 and the after-breakdown talk in chapter 9. _

_One last, very important thing: PLEASE REGISTER FOR STEM CELL DONATION! To register you only have to write to an organization like the DKMS in Germany or the National Marrow Donor Program in the USA and they'll send you a pair of Q-tips to scratch at the inside of your mouth. Then you send it in and it's done– you're registered! I did it in December, it's really not much of an act. IF you're ever a match, you will always have the possibility to opt out or get a full sedation during harvesting. Not registering makes Damian cry! (and Tim will have to knock you down)_

_That said – thank you! I love you, I'll miss you, and I hope we'll read each other again!_

_Love, pekuxumi :)_


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